


The corner house with the leucoia

by anothertakeonromance



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Getting Together, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 59,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26932639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anothertakeonromance/pseuds/anothertakeonromance
Summary: Daily musings of finite moments in an infinite life.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 23
Kudos: 80





	The corner house with the leucoia

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The celebrities’ names/images are merely borrowed and do not represent who the celebrities are in real life. No offense is intended towards them, their families or friends.
> 
> Hello there! This is a story that started on a whim, and I set very unusual challenges for myself while writing it, but it was so polite and pleasant and cooperative, and it grew so much, so I thought it would've been a pity to keep it to myself in the end. It is very unlike a vampire au (it doesn't even have direct scenes with blood and biting), but it is very much a vampire -and baker- au, and it was interesting for me to write! It is not set in a specific time and place, but it is somewhat of a period piece, in a vaguely european-like setting. It also doesn't have an open ending, but the happiness forever after is not as explicitly narrated as in my other stories, so I felt the need to point that out. Please, do not expect any intricate plot, astounding character development or the notorious vampire angst; this is a simple, sweet story -with an appropriate touch of tension, of course-, to offer you a calm and cosy escape. I think it came out nicely and I'm happy to share it. I hope you will enjoy it, too! Stay safe, everyone!
> 
> p.s. due to the time frame and means used to write, edit and upload this story, there may be mistakes in formating, or hmm parts I'm not sure are as nicely written as could be, but I'll edit them at a later time, pardon any inconvenience.

It's dark nights and darker days.

The supposed arrival of spring has only brought the kind of cold that slowly melds into your skin, no longer biting and furious, but the relief of the sun remains long awaited. All Mark can see is clouds. There are clouds in the sky, dark and heavy as a woolen blanket, draped over the horizon, over the cliffs, obscuring the sunrise. There are clouds crowning the waves, gathering gray and tumbling white in the capricious sea winds, throwing themselves against the rocks and breaking in loud hisses and groans, salt and humidity clinging to the air, all the way to the city. It's distant, over the tiled rooftops, beyond the grassy planes that sweep and dip into jagged edges, and yet it's so close, a taste of it in every breath, a knowing tingle in the fingertips, as cool morning air rushes past dirt and cobblestone, tangles in wild hair and sneaks in open lapels.

The roads are still asleep as Mark traverses them in the murky light before the day that's too weak to see colour. The shadows are also weak, but to him it's just as well, walking down the street at ease, an old stubbornness steering him to the middle of the paved expanse, a part of him refusing to be bothered with discretion and rules of fragile humans at the moment; he's been walking the ground before there was anything but humble and windswept shepherd's huts here, the streetlight-outlined bulevards, the ornate mansions, the towering buildings and noisy, glossy cars do not phase him. It's all made more fickle than him.

It's dark days and darker nights.

The reputation is there, lingering at the edge of conversations in the market, whispered behind closed doors, weaving into mothers' tales of fearing the dark, of eyes following and teeth gleaming in macabre delight at the sight of flushed flesh in the night. It doesn't matter if they suspect, if they know, because there's little they can do to threaten harm, even less because no harm has befallen them; no one dies, some just sleep and wake up a little weak, forgetful of the night before, but otherwise safe and sound. Mark has acquainted himself with so many over the years, and still no one in the city knows him exactly, no mortal at least -surely, if not mortal, Johnny likes to think himself an exception, Taeyong visits sometimes too, and Rejun, though younger and feline tempered, would, in the least, grudgingly admit he can make some room for Mark in his solitary ways. They are enough, a small, odd company, so different in disposition that no one would notice the similarities, so similar in possessiveness that no kin of theirs passing by their city is allowed to behave differently, out of line. Speculation is inevitable, murder is forbidden, the city is welcoming if the keepers are treated with respect; misbehaving is fatal. They keep the balance.

His hands are a little cold, only because the rest of him is warm. Warmer. Borrowed warmth, after so long, and he'd rather relish in it underneath his bed covers, in soft pillows and the scent of sweetened linens. The insistent cold of dawn against his skin is tiresome. He gathers his layers around himself, noticing his coat is stained, just a little speck of red in between two buttons, and he sighs at the cumbersome necessity to clean it before it dries, too many clothes having suffered before to teach him the proper mode of care, the attentiveness required for appearances' sake. He likes this coat, it would be a pity to part with it, so inconveniently, while the tails of winter last.

The wrought iron gate of his home, just above waist height, gives easily under his touch, and he doesn't bother swinging it closed, letting it meet with the lush green, awaiting flower beds that line each side of the fence, peaking above the stone wall and through the iron bars. His windows are dark, drawn curtains and cloudy skies reflecting on each side, but there's a glimmer of light against the glass as the sun lazily wakes, the outline of a shadow where the ivy curls around the stone walls and the window seal. He walks up the pebbled path and up the single doorstep, unlocking the dark door and slipping into comfort, the familiar sense of his presence embedded in every nook and cranny of his home greeting him like a caress. It would make anyone else, mortal or not, marginally uncomfortable to be in his space, from as mild a sense as not belonging here, to as severe one as walking into a hostile, domineering and frightful trap. It's a natural side of their lairs, of scent claiming the walls, of breath rubbing off in the air with emotions, of the unique rhythm of movement that determines spaces apart, and order within, and patterns all over the space. To humans it is indistinct, a vague impression; to his kin it is sometimes visceral instinct and sometimes keen observation. Either way, this predicament is a little selfish and very necessary, to provide the unshakeable safety a predator needs to let their guard down, to sleep.

Ah, sleep. Mark trudges up the stairs feeling heavier than usual, fuller, fingers ghosting over the carved wooden railing. Dark curtains obscure the world outside the window at the top of the staircase, and Mark stares for a moment longer at their heavy folds, the dust clinging to their edges, where the faintest glow slithers in, lukewarm and listless as the cats sleeping under window ledges, curled up drowsily and waiting for the rain. A clock's tick too early for the human world to wake, a last hour for him to fade from it, distant waves claiming the first light to themselves, swallowing it greedily, roaring victorious. It's very quiet, as it has been for a long time. He likes the quiet, but sometimes, just a few times, he feels the house is too much so.

To his credit, in spite of his sluggishness, the stain is gone from the seams of his coat by the time he starts undressing, pants discarded over the armchair, shirt rumpled beside it, vest nearly dangling to the ground and shoelaces tangled, golden trinkets, scarf, gloves and such scattered all over the carpet. The oak frame of his bed, the tossed, pale sheets, the hints of luminous specks skittering erantly under the hem of the curtains are all familiar, thawing his skin, relaxing the muscles from his ankles to his skull, kissing his eyelids heavy and lulling his breath, calling him to sleep, _sleep_...

A short, staccato noise reaches his ear just as his knee touches the mattress, alerting his subdued vigilance, which had been sated and tame since he drank, and now it blinks suspicious eyes open, nudging his instincts awake at the most innocuous hint of danger. He waits, and for a while nothing happens -perhaps a passing cat then. But then it comes again and he is no longer sleepy, body straightening at the edge of the bed, silken sheets slipping away from his calves as he haphazardly throws on a dressing gown to investigate.

The noise does not repeat itself a third time, but Mark's keen senses lead him, after a brief examination of the house and its rooms, reasonably, to the front door. The door. He blinks at it for a moment, his tired and muddled thoughts not at all aiding in appeasing his confusion and suspicion, but his impatience takes hold of him and he wretches the door open, without any further hesitation.

A boy.

It's a human boy, who apparently knocked on Mark's forgotten door earlier, all fresh cheeks and bright youth, barely into his adult life and out of bed this early in the morning. There is a bike under him, with a loaded basket that gives off a sweet smell, round big wheels crunching against the pebbles on the path that leads to Mark's doorstep. _He could have parked it outside the fence_ , he thinks with some distaste at the poor manners. He remains silent though, somewhat guarded and absolutely baffled by the bold presence of the unfamiliar human before him, for no apparent reason, and at this hour no less -any hour would be just as unusual for such an occurrence, but let it be noted that the human is currently the only one moving about the still slumbering street.

"Oh" the boy says, and Mark wishes he could decipher what it means, a single syllable is not very telling, but deductive reasoning and nuances seem a burden to his dull thoughts when he's so lethargic after a hunt. He resolutely decides that the best he can do for now is use his eyes instead.

Warm brown eyes blink at him under sleep-laden lashes, soft, full lips are parted around a poorly concealed yawn, little teeth, little moles on sunkissed skin, brown hair that might be golden in the sun curling messily on an unblemished forehead underneath a flat cap. The boy's overcoat looks a little worn, his shoes even more so. The bicycle is an inanimate, metallic offence, but nevertheless unremarkable overall.

Mark concludes that there is absolutely no apparent reason this pretty human would end up on his doorstep before dawn, but he belatedly remembers he left the garden gate open earlier, so he cannot accuse and inquire about this as a trespass.

"Thought you were still sleeping, sir, I was about to leave this out here" the boy says, to his credit trying not to mumble, voice a little raspy from the early hour, but otherwise sweet and clear, like tinkling chimes. Ever more confused, Mark watches as the boy reaches into the basket and pulls out a paper bag, fingerless gloves fishing it out expertly and then politely handing it over to him.

He accepts it into his hands mechanically, not even sparing it a glance, giving the boy a questioning look. He's not expecting any parcels. The boy fixes his hat, shifting his weight to balance on the bike, ready to go as mysteriously as he came, like a gust of wind that slips through your fingers, leaving you stunned and in disarray.

"Alright, then! Good day, sir!" he bids his goodbyes, as expected, his scheduled restlessness not allowing Mark's dazed head a moment to form coherent thoughts; he can only stand, frozen and mute, with a given bag of unidentified, warm contents in his hands, watching the boy wobble backwards on his bike. Finally, Mark takes a breath to protest politely, but then something remarkable happens.

The boy smiles, Mark is out of breath and the sun breaks through the clouds.

***

They've come to expect the rain. The sky hardly ever changes colour from a certain range of shades in gray, and the cobblestones are always wet and slippery and glossy, the dirt roads and the fields outside of the city turning muddy and exponentially dangerous near the cliffs. It's quite often they recieve thunderstorms too, lightning tearing the sky apart, thunder shaking the windows, lore of angry sea gods, of bad omens of blood, of witches, circling the city's markets, taverns, fireplaces and children's bedsides. There are no ships sailing in such weather, docked safely and getting repaired, sheep and cattle take refuge in their barns, getting fatter as they huddle together, children watch the downpour from the windows in awe that soon fades, turning into boredom. Humans are antsy, wasting time they could have invested in their menial yet none the less satisfactory pursuits, but for Mark time is simply passing.

And it does pass much more pleasantly at home, if Mark is to be honest. He doesn't mind sleeping for days, waking up only to watch the rivulets cascading against his window, then lazily switching sides, stretching and sleeping again. There is a standing invitation to Johnny's manor, but he probably has much more preferable, warmer company already, and Mark is not fond of drenched shoes and muddy pant cuffs; besides, another's lair, no matter how close a friend, tends to become uncomfortable after a certain while, so Johnny understands, lets him be. They are both a little concerned about Rejun's den, that clattered yet orderly little space he calls a lair, but Mark had the sunken doorstep fixed the last time it poured, so it shouldn't leak too much, and Johnny bought the kid a proper bed instead of a box, so he should be able to sleep this all away if he chooses to do so, much like Mark is inadvertently hoping to achieve. He dreads the hyperactivity that is bound to hit him afterwards, his body panicking that he might be starved and haywiring his instincts, but it should subside with a small sip, not even a feeding. For now, he rests on his shoulder and watches the rain past the tall windows of his bedroom, the curtains drawn for the occasion since the light is not too uncomfortable.

There are droplets bespeckling the window, trembling and quacking within their small borders. Sometimes they turn heavy and slide down, dragging with them all the others in their path, and then new ones form; it is mild now, the kind of weather that allows children to splash in puddles, a short relief before it picks up and rages again. It should be evening, not yet late enough to lose the hazy light, the skyline of rooftops across his home faintly glinting, cats half drenched scurrying across roof tiles, seizing the chance to find food and shelter. Chimney smoke billows with difficulty through the dense, wet air, and the scent of damp earth permates the streets, so fresh and wild as it spills in from the fields and the restless sea. It might be just a little cold, but he wouldn't mind beneath his covers, flowing over his body and folding between his thighs; his little cocoon of silk is soft against his sensitive skin, soothing as a nuzzling touch, as he stretches pale arms over his head.

The room is bathed in shadows, in deep blue undertones, of velvet on his armchairs, of soft wool on his blankets, of pattern-woven threads on his carpet. Dark wood lines the floor, polished across his dresser, his desk, his bed frame. The curtains hung completely still, the gold-gilded mirror on the wall reflects the pale gray window, and Mark can distanly hear the clock tower bells. He turns on his belly, hugging a pillow to his chest to keep his head afloat, and presses his cheek into the fabric, slowly infusing it with his heat. His scent is flowery, earthy, not spicy like Johnny, neither vanilla sweet like Rejun; it suits the weather, it envelops him like a dewy flower field, or like a fragrant bloom you secretly keep on your pillow, something a little calming you breathe in last before the dreams seduce you away.

Mark wonders what dreams await.

***

It's an almost sunny daybreak, after a couple of weeks shrouded in stormy skies. The tempest has not let up wide at sea, its struggle and torment a quiet hum that Mark senses rather than hears, a galvanic shiver on his arms when the salty wind blows past. But here, there is no longer an angry demon of rains and howls plaguing the streets, and the city is turning active, overjoyed in a lively way that's hard to conceal; the mornings start early, the expectation of the first blooms takes root, the arrival of a swallow pair on the ledges of the clock tower is the talk of the town. They expect better days, brighter, more colourful for sure. Looking out his library's window, the puffs of clouds are light and thin today, promising blue skies. The pallid sunrise weaves around the thin blades of grass-like leaves that have started sprouting from the ground in his flowerbeds, and Mark would dare say spring might come even for him.

His fingers fiddle over the worn and torn spine of the book he's holding, familiar letters of another language covering the yellowing pages, the weight of it in his hands a recurring memory. He allows himself to smile a little, melting comfortably into his armchair.

He has naturally started to withdraw, keeping his presence at the fringes of the city's consciousness. The sunlight is not yet too overwhelming in the day -though he does seek the refuge of his curtains often-, but the socialising is the bane of his existence, and everyone in the city without exception seems interested to talk, to laugh, to meet, to love. For Johnny and his social ways, this is a delightful time, even Rejun is not too uncomfortable moving on the edge of the crowds like a stray cat; Mark, on the other hand, prefers his comforting solitude if he can help it, his books, his walls, his silence.

The silence which gets unexpectedly shuttered by a fast and firm knock on the door.

Setting his book aside, Mark first glances at the sky to guess the hour; it's too pale still, the air is too thin and arguably wintry, so it must still be early, dawn peaking in the most subtle golden lining against the crown of fluffy clouds in the east. _How perfectly odd_ , he frowns, peeking out of the corner of the window, hidden behind the curtain, at whoever decided to disturb his peace. His garden gate is open, but no one is on the path evidently, and the window does not allow a view of the front door. Begrudgingly, he aquices to walk to the door and answer it, to see for himself.

A cool burst of air washing against his skin is the first sensation, then the scent of mist lurking low on the ground and amongst the foliage, creeping out of the flowerbeds and slowly sighing out of the greening branches, as if it is attempting a satisfying stretch after a long night of slumber. Wild grasses have sprouted on the sides of his doorstep and he had been oblivious to them, humble and thin and fresh as they are, and the pebbles tumble a little under the weight of a tall, round wheel.

The boy, again.

"Good morning, sir, lovely day, isn't it?" the honey voice affirms, this time less sleepy, more energetic, likely relieved and renewed after the rains, like a flower that has been watered and left in the sun to bloom, glowing in delight. Unsurprisingly, he carries the sweet and deep, warm scent of bread -Mark is simply used to ignoring such scents, since they are of no use, so he failed to notice earlier.

Mark blinks. He's remotely aware he should, perhaps, make a polite remark in turn, but staying at home in silence has made his social skills a little blunt, like a wooden corner edge that can bruise but not really cut through his stupor. He can see that the boy is cheerful this morning, however, no matter Mark's lacking nimbleness of verse, and that is a small relief. The boy's bright mood is easy to tell, because it's painted all over him like art, an inexplicable beauty that humans don't often possess so harmoniously on their features; the long, tall spine under his thrifty coat, the slight tilt of his head that makes his light brown ringlets sweep over his forehead under the thin brim of his hat, the spark in his eye like dewdrops in the sun, the rosy hue of morning dusting his cheeks, the tiny curl in the corner of his lips, the musical hum they absently let out, the skippy, graceful fingers through the gloves that search for the right parcel.

Oh, right, the parcel.

Mark is about to tell him, schooling his face into the carefully chosen, soft austerity that he decided would look best for the occasion while he practiced through different expressions in the mirror, and he takes a breath, his mind easily running one last time over the lines he has prepared and rehearsed, polite, concise and reasonably structured, tone not too apologetic and anxious but also not abrupt and authoritative. He's about to point out there must be a mistake with these deliveries, and thus reclaim his punctured peace, but then the boy is holding up a paper bag already.

"This is for you, enjoy" he announces, somewhat professionally, like a line spoken many times, and somewhat in earnest, like everyone would deserve to enjoy their day. It takes a moment, a strangely long and, even more strangely, an unthinking one, till Mark's hands reach out on their own, fingers so, so pale taking the parcel from the boy's golden touch. The paper is warm this time too, and the boy is not expecting a response -and Mark is once again helplessly stunned by his smile.

If he stands in the doorway as the boy gives a little wave and steers his bike away, down the path of pebbles and out of the garden gate which he dutifully closes, if he watches as the small breeze ruffles the boy's curls and turns his cheeks redder and brings the sun in highlights at the edges like a halo, if he pauses in curious admiration of the boy's outlined silhouette riding his bike down the street against the sun like a sunflower stretching its petals to the sunrise, it's all a whim, a folly, an idea that passes too soon and too vague to remember when he steps back inside his home, defeated.

***

On the rare instance of Mark feeling generous enough to enjoy the sun, he prefers moving about.

Not entirely unheard of, he performs the occasional walk around the city in daylight as the rains dwindle, watching the season change over the gray-tiled skyline of the residential area, the houses opening their gates and windows to the sun. The first blooms bud tentatively, the sunrays lending everything awash with colour, light flowing in vibrant ribbons and glowing specks, from the softly glowing sunrise hour to the majestically ablaze sundown. There is a lot of life left after winter, shoes thrumming on sunburnt stones, kittens rustling in tender-leaved shrubs, children squealing as they chase and skip, mothers cooking the first taste of fresh jam, fathers humming as they head to the fields, shopkeepers greeting everyone in their pass; it all comes together in a discordant rhythm which the wind billows left and right, orchestrating a timeless symphony of life.

It's the days when that symphony mellows into something welcoming, maybe distantly familiar in the recesses of his mind, that Mark would dare a stroll, perhaps to settle the few business he has in town while he's at it, instead of instinctively closing shut his figurative oyster shell. If the day calls for it, he might even leave the quaint alleyways and busy boulevards of the city, following the wind to its depths and widths, on the wild seaside fields, salty air tangling in his dark locks like an affectionate hand ruffling the hair of a child.

The road is well-tread and meticulously kept neat throughout the year, a necessary passageway to the port and fields, oftentimes to nearby towns as well. Downhill lie the agriculture fields, basking in the sun in pretty rows of sprouting greens and rivulets of crystal water, sometimes arranged in terraces to hold the dirt slides of autumn, sometimes surrounded by a silky wave of hay after the summer. The orchards are to the west, surely a beautiful sight for those who travel to the mountain lakes, some surviving winter with their branches held high, some waiting to bloom in heaps once spring turns more gentle. On the opposite side, far down a strange path carved on the hillside, lies the port, in a small alcove amidst the cliffs. Sails full of wind and nets and cargo, all somehow fit into that space, jagged walls protecting them, though they are hard to navigate, for the waves are ruthless and misleading, a vast blue of unfathomable depths dancing wildly beyond the land, the untamed ocean.

But Mark walks the dirt road farther, till he is the sole person under the sun and all he can hear is the wind and the sea. The grass fields splay on either side, the rains sticking the dust to the ground, and wildflowers bloom on the edges of the road, close by and in the distance, even in the shadowy dips of the hill. White, purple, sometimes yellow or mauve and blue, they cluster together and spread over the grass, or dot amidst it, as if artfully placed from above. The clouds are sparse, puffs of white so light that their ridges look squishy, travelling lazily in the mild gusts of wind against a strikingly blue sky. It is peaceful, hardworking bees and errant butterflies softly buzzing, the waves beyond the cliffs crashing and rumbling, unseen.

Mark walks the dirt road straight down the middle, arms spread in the sun, eyes blinking slowly, and he can feel a smile on his lips, warmth on his skin, salt on his lips and wind in his hair; he can feel the life of spring.

He was once young like this.

Following the curving road, and just when the cliffs are on their highest point, when they obscure the sea completely and replace it as the horizon's line, he sees, unexpectedly, evidence of another traveller, which gives him pause, like any other unexpected event makes a hunter paranoid, or maybe, like any unexpected element makes a cat curious. The grass suffers the wind so often here that it grows tilted, shivering with each gust and shimmering in the sun, whispery and fresh; somewhere in the expanse on the side of the road, seemingly at random, a cluster of metal is glinting silver, half-buried in the soft grass leaves, as if dropped and forgotten. Upon closer inspection, it's a bike, and Mark stands in his spot, searching for the rider cautiously; there is no place to hide here, so where could they be that he so blatantly missed them?

It's a small movement he catches out of the corner of his eye, a person hunched on the edge of the cliff. Instantly, he turns, eyes adjusting in the sun so intensely that his head hurts, and to his horror, he realises the person is not just hunched over the edge, they are dangling past it. He immediately makes a jump start to their resque, but it's already too late, for the figure swoops down and disappears in a blink, as if it was never there.

Panicked beyond his wits, Mark runs as fast as his legs can take him up the slope against the wind, the light shirt he chose for his oblivious stroll now sticking to his skin and ballooning at his waist, as if trying to hold him back. Hair stings his eyes, and if his heart was beating, it would likely be a frenzied drum, his breath all salt in his mouth, fists clenched. He falls to his knees to a bruising halt just a step before the edge, momentum threatening to fling him over into the ocean that now stretches vast before him, eyes frantically searching the waves for any sign of life.

They are blue and heedless as ever, racing, climbing and splintering against the coarse rocks in bursts of foam and rainbow droplets, licking as high as they can with salty tongues and collapsing in teal swirls under the surface. It's beautiful in all its power and ancient rhythm, but also violent and hopeless. After a long moment of searching in vain, he lets out a breath he hadn't realised had locked itself in his chest; it's a little sad with loss, disappointment, the compassionate grieving of a stranger. There is nothing left of a person.

Until a tinkling sound reaches his ears, like glass and metal bells in the wind, not of pain or an anguished cry for help, but one's...laugh?

Mark crawls over a few meters, so close to the edge that one would never dare had the wind been opposite, the ocean below moaning and begging for a touch, an inescapable embrace. Racing thoughts taunt him that he only fancied the voice, only hoped he had heard it, and now he's risking his own demise -not death, but a painful alternative. He shakes such thoughts out of his head, carefully peeking as far down as he can every now and then, fingers clawing the dirt to anchor him, as deep as he can reach, uprooting the grass. It seems forever till he finds him, a young man pressed flat on his back against the cliffside, balancing on a narrow ledge, arms and legs spread like a giant starfish that doesn't belong. A short relief cascades on Mark's bent back, then anger, furious indignation at the sheer stupidity of such irresponsible and hazardous behaviour, then reproach for passing his judgement where it is not required, then relief again, for the human looks perfectly capable of climbing up again if he wishes, the rock formation allowing enough such movement -which the boy, probably, already knew.

The tension melting inside him makes Mark want to starfish on the ground himself, just till the wind blows away the glum clouds on his shoulders and the soft whips of the grass untangle the knots of worry on his temples. He stays, however, watching the human for a little longer, to ensure his safety and his state of mind. He hadn't realised in the heat of the moment, but now he is certain he recognises the boy as the one who rings his door unannounced every now and then -maybe the bike should have been a hint. Mark doesn't like that bike, he finds it very rude on his garden path, but he tolerates it for the higher argument of sanity, the irrationality the personal dislike of an object reflects upon the bearer. He keeps himself hidden and silent, nonexistent in the boy's perception, for fear he might startle him with awful consequences; he doesn't think the boy was expecting company out here in any case, even of a helpful, concerned passerby.

He, inevitably, only stares. The boy laughs when the wind swipes at the cliff, tickling the foreign starfish on its surface, an almost gentle ruffle that sneaks playfully into his trembling clothes and sends locks of hair flying around his flushed face, golden in the bright sun. He laughs and it's crystal bells again.

He's...beautiful. Paramountly life-threateningly reckless, yes, but young and bold and carefree. Alive. Full of sun.

It washes over his head in a golden crown and kisses his skin the colour of flower honey, eyes closed against the brilliance from the sky and the open wind. The ocean doesn't seem to mind him, carrying his voice away, swirling and swelling and breaking far below his feet in a steady pattern of ever changing, never ending waves. He's more radiant than Mark's ever seen him, and it's difficult to reconcile such beauty and pure joy with their perilous surroundings; who knows what brings the human here, who knows when it was the first time. It is apparent he has been here before, however, a well kept secret, because his step is confident and precise, his spine is relaxed against the cliffside like in a comfortable embrace, his eyes are almost always closed, trusting, savoring. He sometimes blinks them open in the distance, a glimpse at the dark sea on the horizon, his fingers curling and relaxing, stretching on the rock at his sides; his smile looks a little pensive then, small but deep.

Another gust of wind tosses his tangled hair about, eyes squeezing shut, plasters his limbs against the rock, moulding a unique and sole outline, blows up his shirt, freeing it from his belt, and Mark has watched for long enough, letting the wind tip over his body, pushing him to the side and then onto his back.

Prickly grass cushions his fall, hair waving in and out of his eyes, his shirt puffing up with as much air as it can fit alongside his body. He can almost taste the salt sticking on his skin, hear the waves whispering just below his ear, smell the sun warming the flower planes, feel the coolness of deep waters splattering in the air -he can almost see the appeal of this, hard ground secure on his back while everything else gets scattered in the wind, safe in nature's wild embrace, every breath and thought becoming insignificant till it's hard to keep track. All he knows is each moment, and it's laced with chiming laughter.

Mark smiles and engraves the present in a small corner of his memory, takes a moment longer to remember his body before he slowly lifts himself off the ground, as if after deep slumber, and walks away while no one knows.

***

Mark stares at the plate as if it is a sentient being.

Ample sunlight filters through the kitchen curtains, the only ones in the house that are bright in colour, reminiscent of a time alive, of family, of days lived coming and going through the heart of the house at all hours, catching the sun at all times, inconsequential then, compared to savory and sweet and hearty tastes, to mouthwatering scents and motherly hugs good morning. But the sunlight now somehow keeps the memory alive. He has no need to be around the kitchen, except for bouts of nostalgia or the occasional glass of wine, so the bright light here doesn't bother him on a daily basis. Its creamy sugar glow is oddly fitting for today's task, showcasing all the better aspects of the pastry neatly placed on the plate before him.

It is part taunting him and part judging him.

The baker boy has not missed a single delivery day in what should be a few weeks. It's every other day, maybe three sometimes, but Mark has not been very apt to keeping track of time in the past decades, memory focused on events rather than chronological organisation, so he has not yet managed to figure out the schedule, perhaps try to intervene. Most mornings he doesn't meet the boy, and only finds the parcel of baked confections long after they've turned cold, tucked safely in his front door's corner, their harbinger stealthily fading in the sunrise before Mark has had any reason to open his door for the day. Thrice since, however, Mark has answered the door himself, and thrice since, he has felt like a perfect fool.

It's always on the tip of his tongue, an apology for the inconvenience and a polite suggestion that there must be a mistake in the baker boy's delivery route, but it never comes out of his lips -in fact, nothing ever comes out of his lips. In their few and dawn-laden, shared moments, the boy usually chatters, politely and generally, chiming voice becoming distinct in the back of Mark's mind, stunning smile competing against the sun, be it still a little drowsy or a cheerful ray of joy. Mark would bet the boy likes the sunnier days better.

But Mark, oh, his tongue is slow as molasses, sticky and disturbingly sweet, which does not happen regularly, not even after dreamless slumber. It is shockingly unprecedented, in all the several languages he speaks, in all the eras and lifetimes and positions he has spoken in; he had always been able to articulate himself so well, it is an utter disgrace, a fierce blow to his pride, and a covert point of concern that this has happened repeatedly with this one human. He's helpless to utter a single greeting, far less a reproach or an apology or an explanation, and though he practices, over and over, he even opens the door with renewed determination each time, he absolutely fails, his throat constricting, his stomach lurching and his knees progressively turning to jelly when he sees the human.

His guilt mounts so high as the cliffside waves in a tempest. He's not supposed to be receiving by mistake, he's not supposed to be deceiving by silence, but both torment him recurrently when he's deeply immersed in fleeting thoughts, and it only worsens each time, embarrassment lacing him so tight he chokes. He doesn't keep anything, of course, he has no use for it, it feels wrong keeping it. He brings them to the orphanage for the children to enjoy, and though they do not see or know him, they were so grateful as to make him a hand drawn card of childish shapes and colours, addressed to _the kind stranger_. It feels wrong to keep that, too. He keeps adding stones to his pockets and he wonders for how much longer he'll be able to float.

Exasperated, frustrated, today he has decided to take radical measures, to shake himself out of this inexplicable stupor that seizes him so inopportunely, and most shamefully so. Maybe a taste will change his mind, that void and ashy flavour that changes only in texture for nearly all food, maybe it will be the final push to kindly refuse next time. Case in hand, there is a small issue of lacking the original experience, because Mark is pretty certain such confections did not exist in his time; it looks subtly glossy and very fragile, a flaky swirl stretching across the middle. It looks like something that should be sweet, should be fancy, the kind that Johnny sometimes serves his guests on teas and coffee and garden parties -Johnny would definitely know what this is. But there is only one way to find out, and for all his reservations he never was a coward, so he pinches one side of the pastry and slowly pulls; it crumbles a little under his fingerpads, sweet crumbs sticking to his skin, and the rest tears away in soft, pale hives. It's a little buttery, the last of its warmth lingering, and it turns a little chewy on his tongue, a little crunchy on the edges of the swirl. It tastes faintly sweet for a moment, more scent than taste, and his tongue instinctively swipes greedily over his lips for stray crumbs, but then the taste sinks in and it's cotton, ashes, a mouthful of something inedible and bland as air. He swallows quickly, but it doesn't spare him the sensation, a numb prickling that stretches over his tongue and climbs around his gums, tickling the roots of his canines, which makes him shiver all over.

He pushes the chair back on reflex, putting some distance between him and the offensive pastry, hissing unbecomingly. A taste of wine would help rid of the taste, probably, but Mark doesn't keep any at the moment, because he's rarely foolish enough to try human food at home and need the wine's assistance -Renjun would rather bite his own hand, Johnny has entire vintage cellars, but Mark can only wipe his fingers hastily on the nearby towel and then press them on his gums, massaging soothingly to get some relief through the full-body shudders.

It ebbs away gradually, soon but not soon enough, and all the while, in between squeezing his eyes shut when tides of goosebumps cascade on his skin and caress every centimeter of his body to his ankles, Mark glares at the plated pastry, now a little ruined. It's a pity, it must be such a delicacy, and yet he resents it as much as it has offended him. Unpleasant as it is, he tries to keep this memory vivid, so he can access all this discomfort and stream it into his resolve the next time he sees the baker boy, something to give him a helpful push against the overwhelming awe that renders him speechless and frozen.

For now, he decides that he needs to feed, it's been long enough since the last time, and the sensation won't fade away entirely otherwise. It's been weeks, more than a month, but he doesn't feel the yearning often, he doesn't need his body warm constantly, and his instincts can be quite tame under the control he has practiced for years. How foolish he has been, triggering them in broad daylight like a naive, lustful child; he'll have to wait till sundown at least, nursing a glass of wine or two till then, when humans let their guard down close to the safety of their comfortable homes, so he can sneak in or charm his way to a warm wrist. He doesn't need much, he just needs _something_ , and then he'll sleep and wake to refuse the boy's offerings.

He leaves the half eaten pastry on display on the kitchen table as a reminder, grabbing his coat and squinting his eyes decisively against the morning sun as he departs for the tavern; Renjun would roll his eyes and Johnny would snort in amusement at his foolishness, Taeyong would probably try to figure why such unusually poor decisions seem to be linked to this particular human boy, but Mark can only bear his mistakes, something he loathes but has always been good at.

***

It's a wonder how he manages to hear the knock.

The morning is lazy and lofty, a pale shade of gray-blue painting the sky outside the living room window, thin strips of brushed-out clouds rippling near the upper right window corner. Hidden within the verdure of the trees over the neighbouring fence, tiny chirps serenade the early touches of a sunrise, crisp air and cold dewdrops veiling the city. It is unusual for him to fall asleep on the chaise longue in the corner of the living room, but yesterday was a testament to his foolishness and patience too, and after his instincts were appeased, he only wanted to sleep, to curl up in bone-aching exhaustion and forget himself and the world. It must have been only a few hours of this uncomfortably reclined sleep till now, but he still feels heavy; his limbs are made of lead, his head is carrying his years, his shoulders are pinched tightly and an anchor seems to be holding him down.

He does hear the knock though, and his mind seems set on refusing sleep for this reason alone, as if there was an urgent expectation he hadn't realised he had, urging him to take action or he won't have peace, no matter how he wishes against it; it sizzles under his skin like sparks and he absolutely does not want to trifle with the threat of a ruined, hypervigilant and sour day if he ignores it.

With a low groan, he orders his body to lift, stand, walk. With grudging steps he approaches the door, stretches his arms on his sides, opens it with a sigh.

"Good morning, s- oh." Mark registers the voice before the face, the usual, cheerful beginning, and then the unusual, sudden drop of cadence to a breathless, deep timbre. The exhale turns into a slowly dissipating cloud of condensation in the air between them. The boy, the usual boy, is not looking at him, or rather, he's not looking at his face, eyes a little further downcast, unblinking, as shocked as his pink, parted lips. Mark glances down at himself with a perplexed frown and- oh. _Oh, no._

He hadn't noticed in his daze, neither did he remember, that last night he had unbuttoned his shirt that felt too stuffy to dream in comfortably, and as a result this morning he has appeared in the doorway to a stranger in the most scandalous state of half-undress, fabric falling off one shoulder, skin on shameless display down to the tuck of his belt. A quiet, freezing gasp and a furious embarrassment grip his chest, iron hot and icy cold, in a way that would force him to blush if he could, and he hastily uses both hands to gather the sloppy fabric and cover himself, crossing it tightly over his sternum, hunching his shoulders in shame, knees a little weak.

"I'm sorry" he rushes to say, not too elaborate or proper or enough for what he just inflicted upon the unsuspecting boy, but the boy doesn't seem to hear him at all, doesn't respond, merely blinks his long lashes repeatedly as he tears his eyes away and directs them to his basket mechanically, as if vaguely recalling the motion sequence. His expert searching touch is a bit absentminded today, eyes looking but not seeing, and his ears peaks deep red under his golden curls.

Mark doesn't dare move, doesn't speak, he doesn't know how and it's almost too hard to think beyond the giant wall of silent, reproachful reflection upon his unbecoming earlier appearance. _Shameful, how horribly disgraceful._ The boy seems to find what he's been searching for on his third run-through of delivery parcels inside his bike's basket, and fishes it out with ease, almost like any other day.

"Um, this is for you" he offers, without the usual babbling of well wishes, voice a little strained, trying to be professional. He holds out the bag, glances at Mark's eyes for the briefest moment before recalibrating them to somewhere next to Mark's ear, his cute nose flushed from the cold morning air whipping his face as he rides his bike down the street, his cheeks flushed for entirely other reasons.

Mark tries to be swift for both their sakes, holding his shirt closed over his chest with one hand as he receives the paper bag with the other, and he is about to attempt another apology for this unfortunate incident, but he's not given the chance.

"Have a good day!" the boy lets out a hardly concealed, distraught squeak the moment the bag is out of his hold, and he grabs the handles of his bike urgently, half pedaling and half hobbling in a funny way down the garden path and out the gate, which he passes at first, then reaches back to close it, never chancing a peek back towards the house again.

Mark watches him go, shaking his head and mumbling to himself as he rides towards the sunrise at the east, and it's so uncharacteristic for the boy to act so disorganised and uncoordinated and lost -and it's all Mark's fault, as is apparent. With a heavy heart of equal parts guilt and shame, Mark shrinks back into the house, leaves the pastry bag on the kitchen table without a single thought about it, and promptly retires to his bedroom for the rest of the morning. He is under an indistinct impression that there was something he was supposed to do or say, but he has forgotten, and it matters no more as he sinks into his bed with a long suffering exhale, seeking oblivion.

***

If there is one thing Mark has missed from his first life, it would be the woods. There are many things he misses, as many as the new things he discovers and then they turn old and scarce and disappear. But when he was a boy, he really liked the woods; the ancient trees, tall as the sky, the gnarly roots with mossy covers, the rocks that seemed buried too deep to turn over, the slopes of stone and grass into babbling creeks, and the wildflower fields appearing as a perfect sanctuary in meadows, cool and fragrant under the sun. He liked the woods in all the seasons, in the golds and reds of autumn, in the snow blankets of winter, in the mists and colours of spring, in the stuffy evenings and the cooling streams of summer. He was born in summer, though he can't quite remember the exact date anymore; he was reborn in spring, when a winter's fever that had long claimed him finally blew out his last breath like a candle, and then this life claimed him, in the form of a man with beautiful amber eyes like autumn leaves and hearth embers, a merciful friend.

The years sometimes blur in memory since then, but Mark still remembers he often used to get lost in the woods when young and alive, to play, to explore, to gather necessities and make friends with the bunnies and the foxes. He has found new forests since, with lakes and mountains and waterfalls and strange plants and living things, but he can no longer live there -unless, of course, he surrenders this second unliving life and turns to stone, the statue of a man, consciousness slumbering within but helpless without the nectar of borrowed human life. But oh, he misses so much, the cool ground under his feet, the rustling of leaves overhead, the sunshine on wildflowers tall as his knee and on the tiny shy ones that grow by the rivers, the breath of the forest on his skin, its rhythm in his blood; he misses it in all the seasons, all the years, sometimes like a memory, unattainable and distant, sometimes like a part of him, forgotten and subtly aching.

To ease the nostalgic ache, he sometimes visits city parks, an inaccurate equivalent, but easily accessible and partially comforting. Down the main avenue, where the residential and the business areas meet, there are many parks dotting the neighbourhoods, most of them busy with passersby all day, to shops and homes and friends and work, but there remain some quiet corners, the pathways and alleys that lead away from the crossroads. He's chosen one as such for his stroll today, thick tree branches arching overhead, shading the path under their web of swaying, greening leaves. Every so often, a stray sunray hits the ground, smooth dirt with a fringe of white pebbles line the sides of the path, where grass and wild weeds gather around thick barkskin and the occasional overground tree root. Mark's shoes are light against the ground, his heart even lighter; if he closes his eyes and tries really hard, he can almost glimpse at the memory, almost feel it brushing on his skin.

There has been only one other person to cross his path, a lady that acknowledged him with a polite nod of the head from across the width of it when they passed by each other, and so Mark has taken off his hat, holding it behind his back as the sun and the breeze sneak through the leaves to touch his hair, his eyelids, the shade dewy on his lips, the season warm on his suit. His heart is peaceful, as if floating instead of anchoring inside his chest. It's difficult to make an unbeating heart soar.

He soaks in every moment he's given, but eventually the path winds and flows into one of the gateway alleys, the trees standing on each side with shading foliage giving way to open blue sky, the dirt changing to cobblestone, much like the road outside. All things come to an inevitable end, and he sighs, one last lingering moment, before he puts on his hat and accepts the shift on his skin, from peaceful to lively, from daydreaming to reality, shuffling shoes and energetic crowd working up a hum, a nearly palpable pulse of hundreds of lives and personal moments intersecting each second, smiles and frowns, slow walks and purposeful strides.

He tunes in as another man going home, disinterested in the colourful dresses, the socializing, the shopping bags, merely walking by, on his way, posture perfectly respectable. The tall iron gates are wide open to accommodate the crowd of those who stumble, those who rush, and those who amble in and out, even the dogs that follow humans or just curiously search in the rustling shrubbery behind the stone and iron lined walls of the park. The sidewalk is much more crowded, adding parcels and bags and quicker steps into the mix, and it takes some effort to gain the experience in manoeuvring around the downtown traffic without causing or receiving any disturbance. Mark's steps take him to the edge of the sidewalk as he avoids a collision with a package as big as a piano that someone is dragging along, and he finds himself near the road, where cars are a far more regular occurrence than those sparsely appearing in the residential area, wheels and fumes wheezing as driven by with the windows open, sometimes cabriolets, too.

He takes out his handkerchief, wipes the stench of fume from his nose after a car drives right by him, and he's just about recovering from the distaste souring his afternoon, when the wheels of another bike roll closer, any and all bikers sticking to the side of the road next to the sidewalk for safety, facing the oncoming cars. The flash of golden brown catches his eye first, then the familiar bike with the basket of sweet and warm parcels; the baker boy is not wearing a hat today, hair tangling in the wind, and there's a frawn carved deep between his eyebrows, but that's all Mark has time to notice before the bike speeds by him, a faint chant of _Taylor street, Taylor street, Taylor street_ reaching his ears in a familiar voice, for mere moments and then fading, disappearing in the crowd's noise, following the boy.

Taylor street? He's headed the wrong way.

With a morose pang of guilt and pity, Mark realises there's nothing he can do to help and save the boy the trouble of circling around the City Hall square to ride back up the boulevard and to the left of Lake Park, and for a long moment he stares down the road where the boy disappeared off to, resigned. The boy is not his responsibility, not even a friend or an acquaintance, he's just a casual stranger, but after all the times they've met, after all the feelings Mark has experienced in the boy's presence, deep down he doesn't feel neither a stranger nor casual. It's a strange reach of his kin's possessiveness, eager and greedy to claim all the constants and incostants of his life, but Mark knows to recognise and restrain it.

So he shakes his head and continues on his way home resolutely, as if there are no thoughts of the boy flooding his mind, as if they're not taking advantage of his natural reservedness to dig up the memory of his mortification on their last encounter and reach deeper from there, searching curiously, patiently, for something to hook onto. Mark doesn't let them.

As he makes a turn at an intersection in front of an imposing, carved stone building, shoes scuffling in a flurry next to his own, another thought crosses his mind; does the boy regularly have a bad sense of direction?

***

There is an impressively large mirror on the wall, its silver sculpted frame reflecting the late evening sunshine and turning aflame. Its surface is littered with faces in various angles, ages, sentiments, some drinking merrily and some drinking miserably, lonesomely, expectantly, compulsively, enthusiastically, so much emotion gathered around tables and food and wine, the fireplace turning brighter as the sun wanes. The wooden floors are heavy, the air flows with scents and voices and heat, hands and lips and bodies moving incessantly over the tables. It's a parallel life, one outside of work, outside of a house, outside of routine. It offers a sense of freedom, a small and lighthearted one, not to the extent of being unruly, but certainly breaking out in laughter more easily. Mark can see the mirror image of most tavern patrons from his table by the mezzanine, without the exception of himself, and most are laughing in high spirits already, but not him.

He looks solemn, or so people seem to often think. Mark thinks he looks a little lost. He's always had such features that give him an innocent expression, round and clear eyes, delicate eyebrows and nose, pale lips, and a rather opposing pair of high cheekbones, a sharp jaw. His hair is usually short, black and thick, too stubborn to style in the fluctuating elegant ways of the times. Dark brown eyes stare back at him through the mirror, his evening suit in perfect order, posture proper and composed; Johnny once said that if Mark were to dress any more daringly, in the billowy sleeves and decorated collars fashion, he'd look the perfect picture of a brooding poet, of a creature full of emotion and art and temper. Maybe he'll try it someday, in some other lifetime. For now, he is the quiet resident of that corner house, ambiguously unemployed after his last job two decades ago; he used to be a librarian across the city for many years, but one can pretend they remain naturally youthful for just so long before they have to retire, and now he's waiting out the refractory period before he can be employed again safely, unfamiliar or resembling a distant cousin who used to be a librarian at worst. He has no need for money, but he does need a purpose -yet, that is not to say he is not enjoying his long sabbatical, just being himself. He likes being himself, with all his flaws.

He knows the moment Johnny walks in, warm spices mingling with the scent of wine and the smoke of the fireplace, a cosy, friendly sensation, like a hug. His towering height makes him easy to pick among the crowd, chestnut hair and honey eyes perfectly complemented by his choice of a rust brown suit. White gloves, a polished wooden cane, always a gentleman -and currently a renowned businessman-, he immediately attracts the server's attention, exchanging a few words and smiles before he's cheerfully led to Mark's table, drawing the eyes of many along the way.

"Mark, it's been so long!" he says heartily in greeting, shaking hands while clasping Mark's with both of his own; Mark knows from the way Johnny looks at him, with joyful sparkles in his wide eyes and an honest smile, that he would be hugged if the setting allowed for the intimate display. So long, he says, but it's been merely a month; where Mark tends to underestimate the passage of time, Johnny tends to exaggerate, missing his friends every day, more family-oriented than the rest of them.

"I hear you have been busy" Mark teases as they take their seat, facing each other at the table, and Johnny lets out half a laugh, amused as he takes off his gloves with finesse, and it's one of the rare times one can glimpse his age deep in his eyes; busy with human things, passing things, little things to keep him temporary company in a much more enduring existence.

"Business is good, it's fun" Johnny reiterates politely as usual, while stray glances and curious ears might still linger on them, leaning back comfortably in his chair, broad, imposing shoulders and arresting confidence making boys and girls swoon; he is different in each lifetime, a carpenter, an artists' model, a doctor to name a few. Regardless, his presence is always so comforting, reassuring, caring. "There's an open invitation for you in business, you know; I could introduce you" Johnny continues with a faint smile that promises mischief, but his offer is genuine. "Or I could use you in one of my charities, teaching children, for example" he accompanies his last words with a graceful gesture of the hand, something to distract from his hopeful tone of voice, because, persistent as he might be, he never wants to pressure anyone into a decision. Mark gives him a small smile of understanding and appreciation; the thought has occurred to him before, it is a conversation they have left half-done a few times.

"I appreciate it, but...not just yet" he tries to convey it as inconspiciously as possible, given their surroundings, and Johnny nods, his eyes knowing; maybe in two or five more years, it will be safer for Mark to be reintroduced in humans' daily lives, but not just yet.

"Is he still trying to get you to come out of the house more?" a new voice joins them, and they both grin widely as Renjun takes a seat on their side between them, always managing to sneak close undetected, like a cat. Johnny swipes at the younger's shoulder playfully for the teasing, and Mark quietly laughs a little, not minding that the joke was at his expense; he's a housecat, and quite a loner one, that is no secret among them. Renjun subtly brushes Mark's hand on the table as he settles, and a wave of sweet vanilla engulfs him like a sugary kiss; Renjun is far subtler than Johnny, his scent coming and going with his touch, trusted in only a few, and only when he wants to -which is not unusual with Mark and Johnny, like a cat rubbing its head against its family. Renjun is a boy with a fairy nose and smart, dark eyes, a sharp edge on his smirk and a complexion more fair than Mark himself, his dark hair longer now, falling into his eyes and wrapped in a low ponytail at his nape; he has a different charm, nicely wielded into his current image, dressed in a flowing, loose shirt, his top buttons undone, legs showing long and graceful as a dancer's, not a hint of ornaments on himself, a presence many would find intimidating, subtly sharp, but his personality is quite loving and tame with his close ones.

"How were the rains for you? You didn't write to me" Johnny asks him in a distinct motherly tone, his lips forming a petulant pout around the slighted accusation. Renjun is their youngest, though not exactly young, but he still gets away with rolling his eyes at Johnny's nagging.

"There was no post, why would I write? The rains only dragged in a few interesting trinkets" he defends in a feigned disinterested tone, but they all know how fascinating human trinkets are to him, whether he finds them or buys them in antique and brass and second-hand markets. He likes mechanics, the wheels and cogs turning and the screws and the tiny pieces, anything he can take apart and put back together. He has quite a collection, different eras and useful or obsolete artifacts gathered over time, some complete, some half and restored as he could best, just things, important to him regardless of their value, because it's his favourite fascination, a harmless pastime. Mark should visit him, or at least ask in further detail about what he found this time to keep him busy through the torrential rains -he once found him elbows deep into a broken barrel organ, which he was very excited to fix and play for Mark afterwards. It's nice to see him excited.

"Are the gentlemen ready to place their order?" a server interrupts with a polite smile, standing by Johnny -probably because he looks the wealthiest and most extroverted among them. He doesn't disappoint.

"Wine, please, your finest" he orders predictably, sparing the man a close-lipped smile as the server bows and leaves immediately, obviously pleased at the first order being costly, a false hope of no expenses spared; little does he know it shall be their only order for the night, disregarding completely the delicious food the establishment provides. It would be wasted on them.

They were once human, they are no more, but little has changed besides the time they are given in this life, the blood they need to borrow lest they turn to stone, and the absolutely abolished necessity and enjoyment of food. They can tolerate wine, honey, and sometimes meat, because they retain some hint of taste besides texture, but the rest is ash, melting to dust on their tongue. They do make sure to pay for the servers' time, but it would be useless and even conspicuous to order food without touching it once.

There follows a short lull after the server's departure, natural and comfortable, Johnny shifting a little in his seat for convenience, Renjun reaching out to stroke his fingers over the back of Mark's hand absently, and Mark is not sure how his usually stiff body manages to blurt out a thought of his own without his approval, betraying him on an impulse he wasn't even aware of.

"The rains brought me a boy" he says quietly, gaze dropping to the table's polished surface. He registers he's said it aloud just one short, embarrassed moment before he accepts it in resignation, unable and perhaps unwilling to take it back. He doesn't know why he said it, what urged him to confide something so trivial and yet somehow still making itself feel important to him, but he supposes there is no harm and no other to confide in; a letter to Taeyong would take forever to reach him, and any hasty, written babblings he fears would seem silly in the long years they'll have to reflect on them.

"Did he sprout in your garden?" Renjun quips playfully, and he sounds amused, his index finger flicking Mark's knuckles to call for his absent attention. Mark lifts his eyes to a sneaky grin and attentive eyes from Renjun, and an intrigued raised eyebrow from Johnny, a clear indication that he's expected to continue.

"No, I think he got lost, or misdirected" he answers Renjun with a flick of his own fingers retaliating against the younger's palm, a small smile playing at his lips at the silly antics. Renjun doesn't even flinch, humming a little in contemplation, eyes still watching Mark closely, and Johnny's eyebrow lifts even further if that's possible, a silent question, almost a dare. More, then, they want to hear more. Mark straightens his back and clears his suddenly tight throat, caught in Johnny's inescapable, expectant gaze, vaguely aware that Renjun, too, sees far deeper than the surface, a perceptiveness that's almost instinctual to him. Mark laces his fingers on the table, taking his time to think; confiding is not the most casual of his feats, and he's met with patience, they understand. He doesn't know what else would be worth sharing about it. It's not that interesting. A boy got lost and found at his door. "Repeatedly."

For something menial, it sure thins his voice noticeably to say aloud. If the boy _had_ sprouted in his garden, at least it would explain the roots his presence has taken in Mark's thoughts, but in reality the boy comes and goes, and yet Mark's thoughts stay. Renjun freezes beside him, an imperceptible change to his statuesque posture, but Mark unfailingly catches his fingers stilling their play on the table, out of the corner of his eye. Johnny's expression shifts to surprise, perhaps a little cautious, perhaps a little knowing. Of what, Mark still is unsure himself.

"Oh." He says, and it's just like Johnny, an acceptance, an expectation, a readiness to support him in anything. It feels like a nudge to a birdling into flight, but also like the only thing that could possibly be said by someone else on the topic. The moment breaks, the hum of others rushing in, and Mark's nervousness miraculously untangles, words flowing more easily on his tongue, reassured, safe.

"I'm going to fix it though. I actually meant to ask you, Johnny" he leans slightly over the table, and Johnny mirrors him with interest, curious and far more comfortable too, while Renjun politely accepts the wine they are served, before leaning closer to hear as well, "do you know any bakeries that sell those sweet, flaky pastries, swirly in the middle?" Mark asks, feeling a little embarrassed with his naive, childish description, but if this pastry is exclusive enough for Johnny, then his best chance at picking a thread to untangle this mess by finding the bakery is through his bon vivant friend. Johnny tilts his head, eyebrows knitting in question.

"Croissants, you mean?" he provides, in a clearly amused voice, a grin fighting against him to spill on his lips.

"Probably" Mark answers, because he can't be certain. He has assumed a big part of the riddle, and he's not sure what the answer is, so he'll have to take Johnny's best guess as a first step. It seems promising, because the man in question smiles, a hint of smugness in his eyes, as he picks up his wine and leans back in his chair again, for his next, teasingly confident announcement.

"Well, I'll tell you, but I'll have to hear the story first"

Renjun, with his lips on the wineglass, couldn't agree more.

***

It smells sweet, inviting, floating in invisible, beguiling swirls of fantom taste to the crowd up and down the street, tangling between their shoes, reflections of hats and ribbons and colourful parasols gliding over the large storefront windows. The small tangerine trees adorning the walkway in spacious intervals outside are also bright and constant in the mirror image, as the crowd ebbs and clusters, sometimes pausing to peer into the store, sometimes tiptoeing with curiosity and wonder if their age calls for it. It looks tidy, with its warm stone and spotless windows, peaceful, in the tranquil silence that's scented sweetly inside, most welcoming.

Mark sternly reminds himself that he has a very specific reason to be here, a matter he must absolutely resolve today, and he is confident that he has reached his intended destination after a quick elimination of other bakeries Johnny suggested, if anything, by the familiar nemesis of a bicycle that's parked right beside the store's side wall. It seems to mock him for his weakness that has led to this situation requiring a personal visit to be resolved, but Mark ignores the jab at his pride and dignity, and enters the premises. He shan't be intimidated.

A tiny bell rings upon his arrival, the heavy door slowly closing shut, muting the outside hustle, as if sealing a thin bubble of separate space and time. It's sunnier here, the light is more mellow and clear than the blinding brightness of the street, and the sweet scent of baked confections envelops him whole, a warm greeting, a sense of comfort. There are tall shelves lining the walls, tins and boxes and glass cases, sometimes crisp heaps of bread, or artfully adorned loaves; some pastries have no name in Mark's dictionary, some seem vaguely familiar. He certainly doesn't remember visiting bakeries like this in his living past, his time was simple, less sugar, less fruit, less art. Everything is a little masterpiece here, the texture, the shape, the presentation, from the bunny-shaped mastique challah for cute customers, to the enviously silky butter biscuits and some with apricot jam, to the luscious chocolate covered fruit inside the glass-top ice box; there is more, flavoured bread sticks with flurries of nuts, jars of jam and syrup fruit with neat tags hanging on the side, desserts with crystal syrup in trays, thin glass bottles of liqueur, a small drawer tower with tea labels and many more, somehow fitted into this small space and managing mysteriously to look uncluttered, orderly, deliciously appealing without exception. The wooden counter completes the simple yet inviting displays, the warm ambience, and the arrangement of sunflowers on its far end close to one of the windows brings a fresh breath of spring inside. The confections look fancy but the shop is humble, picturesque and friendly to its customers.

And he is the only customer at this hour, it seems, since no one else is present, not even an employee in sight -Mark hopes he hasn't picked an hour that humans universally have come to deem inappropriate for shop visits in his years of distancing from societal matters. At least it doesn't seem closed for the afternoon hours, as some shops carry signs of on their doors.

"Hello?" he calls, just enough to be heard but not to overwhelm the space. There is no answer for a few moments of anticipation, so he takes a few steps further inside to try again. There is movement behind the curtain at the doorway to the back of the store, behind the displays, its thin, fluttery fabric pulled to the side, revealing long, wooden twin workbenches, cooling racks full of pastries, and dim lighting, as if coming in bright daggers of sun through closed, spacious shatters; loose flour dances in the spaces of sun, small puffs scattering in billowy breaths rhythmically every so often, while someone works dough with it.

One step to the side and busy hands appear, skillfully gathering and folding and pushing the stretchy dough on the wooden surface. It looks like a dance, engaging the entire body with movement, thin waist bending, lithe back arching, elbows extending and fingers flaring gracefully as the kneading progresses to a crescendo, faster, harder. The head is bent, hair falling into shaded eyes and curling at the base of the neck, glistening with sweat, forearms lined with muscle hard at work, exposed by rolled up sleeves and spattered with smears of flour. The skin looks almond in the shadows, amber gold where the sun hits, utter concentration and whole-bodied effort focused on the task at hand; it's beautiful, passionate, in the way humans often put their heart's drumming into things they dearly, privately enjoy.

"Hello?" Mark calls again, this time with purpose, with a certain reach, standing much closer than before, and this time he is heard, the human's head turning sharply in his direction, movement halting in the shadows.

"Just a moment!" the cheerful, crystal voice of a familiar boy answers him, swift hands putting the dough to rest in a basket and silently clapping off most of the flour before hastily wiping the rest on the front of his apron, futilely trying to dust it off afterwards as he walks ahead without minding his step, navigating blindly. As the distance diminishes, Mark swallows a sudden hiccup in his throat and straightens his posture, the boy similarly tidying up his appearance in the last frontier of shadows on his way to the front of the store, and Mark averts his eyes out of courtesy, just before the boy appears. "Sorry to have kept you waiting- oh!"

It sounds surprised. Mark can't say he hadn't expected that, amongst the many reactions he went through in his mental rehearsals -he doesn't join and meddle with the humans' daily lives much in the current years, so surprise or curiosity or cautiousness are fairly usual reactions. It didn't sound as pleasantly coloured in his imagination, however. He blinks at the boy, and it might be the closest he's seen him.

And he is...beautiful again. Soft cheeks, flushed with vitality from his earlier efforts, wide, warm eyes catching the sun, plush lips parted in surprise, cupid's bow glistening subtly; the boy has the cutest nose, and constellations on his cheek and neck, the elegant slope of which disappears under a disorderly linen shirt, honey smooth skin rippling with each breath and- and this is bad. Very bad. Mark can't afford to be curious of biting.

"Good afternoon" he greets again, personal this time, with a shallow, polite tip of his head forward. The boy mirrors the gesture out of habit, golden ringlets swaying slightly on his head, but his expression is still one of incredulity, laced with the imminent probability of a genuine smile on the verge of his lips. It occurs to Mark that this might be the first time he is addressing the boy properly, so maybe that ought to explain his reaction. Mark belatedly takes his hat off, holding it in his hands, and if his flustered manners are amusing, the boy doesn't show; he is ultimately a professional in his line of business, so he does away with his astonishment and instead breaks out into a much anticipated smile, full of little teeth and sunlight and crinkles around his eyes, almost overwhelming to gaze at directly.

"Good afternoon to you, sir, how may I help you today?" he chirps, lines that have been spoken a thousand times, but it still sounds amicable, intimate, like a hand reaching to Mark's shoulder over the short distance of the counter between them. Mark clears his throat and needlessly fixes the closed button of his jacket, tugging the fabric around it to make sure it's straight, with absolutely no point whatsoever.

"There is an issue of sorts that needs to be resolved with you, I'm afraid, and, to that end, I have visited you today" he announces composedly, and the boy's smile dims, a horribly heartbreaking transition to apprehension, lip line softening and eyes blinking more open from their crescent shape, reappraising Mark's purpose, demeanour, his entire presence in front of him -and did Mark sound too formal and pompous, it sometimes happens, he did, didn't he, he's not always in synch with the times, and his serious, stoic expression is not doing him any favours, but he fears a smile is not often his strongest suit and he absolutely needs to convey his sincerity on the matter at hand.

"And to what do we owe the pleasure, sir?" the boy enquires politely, patiently, though his eyes keep blinking and lingering on Mark, like honey drizzles that cling, compelled, to the last of their strength. Mark would guess it is in part cautiousness of confrontation, but it could be that the boy has never seen him in broad daylight as well, and he is entitled to his curiosity. Mark, himself, is certainly experiencing remarkable inner turmoil trying to focus, on the boy, on the boy's presence weakening his knees, on his due apology, on the fluster from receiving such close attention from someone like _him_ , made of sun, too bright, too warm.

"You see, these deliveries I've been receiving over the past weeks, they've been mistaken" he begins to explain, as calmly as his nervousness bubbling stronger and stronger under the surface allows, but he's halted by the sudden shift in the boy's expression, eyes turning wide in horror, body going stiff.

"Mistaken?" he echoes, a little tight with anxiousness, scrambling to pull up a few notebooks from under the counter, running his fingers over thick, worn leather. "Are they not according to your order placement? Or were they unsatisfying in quality, perhaps quantity?" he questions, hands randomly opening and meaning to search one of the books he's chosen, but the moment he looks up his eyes refuse to leave Mark's gaze, equally wide, locking into a strange circle of no outcome and progress on either side, like the two have spooked each other into floating instead of sailing. Mark forces himself to swim.

"No no, the pastries were excellent and I-" _I've enjoyed them very much_ , he almost lies, but he doesn't have the heart nor the shamelessness to lie to the boy, even a white lie, so he recomposes his words and banishes his fluster from his thoughts in an instant. "I appreciated them very much" he amends, not quite a lie, because he did come to appreciate the boy's presence, in a way. The day just seems different with him involved for the brief moments of their shared time. Stolen time. "I'm afraid the problem is that I was never meant to receive them; I never ordered them" he states calmly, carefully, rehearsed over a hundred times, keeping his expression as composed as possible. The boy blinks for a few moments, frowns, turns a page just because it's caught between his fingers without even looking at it.

"Are you certain of this?" he asks, and even with a frown he looks pretty, his eyebrows furrowed, lips set in a confused pout. The light streams in, casting a soft glow on the shelves, the glinting jars, the boy's skin, and in this proximity Mark can almost see the curl of his lashes as they flair out in the corners of his eyes, the strands of hair that are more golden than brown, blending in his ringlets, the moles on his cheek, nearly symmetrical, the faint outer pink of his lips and the darker inner seam where they cushion against each other. It's a little distracting. It's very alluring. There was a question.

"Yes, quite certain, I fear" Mark clears his throat, forcing away this stray wonder that overcame him for a moment, and he stands attention while he expects for the boy to cross-reference his books, search their pages with the same swift elegance he sorts through his morning parcels, but the boy shifts his gaze to the side, a small recalibration, somewhere past Mark's ear and out the window. His stare is blank and introspective, hardly seeing the world beyond the glass, expression caught between a frown of worry, disappointment and deep thoughts on one hand, and the stony apathy of shock on the other.

"Oh, no" he breathes out at long last, and Mark intends to ameliorate the situation with apologies he has compiled and words he has composed over the past few days -mayhaps even weeks-, dancing on the tip of his tongue with their practiced, planned, soothing politeness, that wall of sometimes bricks and now of glass, no distance kept, too transparent to offer any substantial consolation. But this is their chance, their moment has come. The boy unexpectedly shifts his gaze to Mark, still grave and somewhat dazed, slowly rearticulating the visitor's figure in his unfocused vision. "We have a very displeased customer out there" he states, not accusingly, not despairingly, not irately, but rather flatly, an unsurprised, unhurried statement, simply speaking his mind.

Mark's nervousness and guilt and shame manage to climb their way through his throat, like vicious vines spill on abandoned walls, constricting, making him feel the lack of air in his full lungs, and before he knows it, he is stuttering and stumbling over words he has memorised and utterly forgotten, barely listening to his own lips, like running away without watching each step, the wild that calls too close and incoherently.

"I- given the chance, I'd like to offer my most sincere apologies. I should have brought this to your attention long ago, but, um, given the circumstances, I was shamefully unable to do so any sooner" He admirably doesn't fidget at the bite of shame, the one that would have made him a blushing mess if it any longer could, and he keeps running in his thoughts, straight on tangled thorn roots and in ditches with jagged rocks on their sides; the only way to outrun his panic has always been straight ahead and painful. "I'm more than willing to settle the bill for all the pastries I have received as of yet, of course, and should you require any other reparations for your inconvenience, you only need let me know-"

"No no, please, that won't be necessary!" the boy interrupts his arduously cascading words, finally catching up and blinking away the last of his stupor, even shaking his head and holding up his hands, as if to clear the fog. "I am entirely culpable, you don't need to burden yourself any further!" he says with conviction, a strange confidence in his mistakes, a gallantry, an air of easy eloquence one wouldn't ever expect of a baker boy. The sun is different on him now, the lines of his face shaded more mature and his eyes certain, boring into Mark's with the tranquil self-assurance of a majestic beast watching the world, holding the answers and destruction in a beautiful, powerful, absolute silence.

He has not seen that in a human in centuries.

"It wouldn't be a burden" he reassures the boy calmly, voice very distantly patronising with the pleased wisdom of his age; some humans are still noble as beasts, fewer and fewer in each time, but to an observer, to a stone untouchable by the tricks of time that holds the same ferociousness, even if in sweet serenity, it is always a pleasure to see this morale; not to win over it -though it is often necessary-, but to acknowledge it, sparse and flickering in the world. "I will settle the bill at the earliest convenience" he states with finality, holding the rim of his hat with both hands, formal -stiff, Renjun would say.

"Ah…" the boy sighs out in defeat, tension bleeding away from his posture and expression, as he brings a hand to his hair, tangling and rubbing his fingers in the silken curls in frustration, as if his head aches, before he drops the hand to the neglected books on the counter and gives Mark a softer look. "I've bothered you so much, haven't I? I'm sorry."

He doesn't sound apologetic, and somehow that's not strange at all.

"It's not an issue" Mark answers him, and it sounds like an issue, of another kind, however. He is not offended or bothered, he's rather...amused, for some reason he can't explain. Mark is not often amused, and this time he is fascinated. It's what made Johnny and Renjun speechless at the tavern, it's what makes all the irregularities around the boy inexplicable to Mark, it's what Taeyong would like to pick apart in his frustrating, insightful games of words. It is not remarkably bad for the time being, it is not with certainty good in its prospects either, but it is, as closure would have it, over. Finished, with a full stop. The boy won't come again, Mark won't have to think of him again, and he tries to convince himself that his spotlessly clean and prideful conscience is worth it. He had to do this, most emphatically yes, but he can't say as surely that he wanted to. It is done now though, _no reason to loiter about_ , Mark reprimands himself and holds his hat in his right hand, the intention to tip it onto his head soon. "I shall take my leave, then; may I expect an account from you in the next few days?"

It takes a beat longer than he expected, his polite, dare he say friendly words met with a peculiarly closely engaged stare; the boy's eyes map out his features as if he is not a stranger, as if searching for something familiar, something that he's so caught up in that he holds his breath to find it.

"Yes" he answers plainly, a little breathlessly and a second out of tune in the conversation. He still looks a little distracted, blinking fast to dispel his daze, and Mark lets him be, bows his head politely and turns to the door, putting his hat on as he goes; the boy thinks much deeper than he talks, that much is obvious, and Mark has burdened him enough for one evening. He has already a hand on the door handle when the boy unexpectedly calls for him again. "Oh, sir! Mister- I'm assuming not Mr. Park, but-"

"Lee" Mark provides easily, his expression openly curious, standing half facing back at the boy, half still turned to the door. He doesn't even register that he blurted out some hint of personal information at the boy's insinuation, not even a question; distance seems to loosen Mark's guarded, tied up tongue when the boy is concerned, but the boy's peculiar influence remains even then, more dangerous then, a false safety that Mark is not sure he can trust. He's not particularly fond of thinking this through either, however, because at the moment it's far more interesting how the boy's lips twist into a smirk, a little pleased, a little sharp.

"Mr. Lee, then" he articulates clearly, a breath slowly, honey dripping from his tongue, an entirely different aura about him. He leans over his leather bound books slightly, fingers toying with a corner, playful. He tilts his head in an adorable way, pensive, the more intimate than polite smirk never fading and becoming more devastating by the second. "Should you wish to set up a new order for yourself, I am at your disposal..." he trails off, not too obviously, an insinuation again, this time deliberate.

As if trying to draw Mark in, uncertain of it, but with certain intention.

"Perhaps another time, thank you" Mark fights against an amused smile that tries to escape on his lips, declining the offer as diplomatically polite as he can afford to be; perhaps another time means never, clearly, since he has no possible need or use for food deliveries of any kind.

The boy nods in understanding, surrendering his smirk and demeanour to a softer, gentle goodbye, and Mark turns around and leaves this time, the bell chiming his departure. His smile is reflected in the window, chest swelling with a strange emotion, and when he schools his features back to a usual, composed expression under the shade of his hat, he chances a forbidden, scandalous -but, most importantly, instinctive- glance back at the boy in the store, looking so perfectly in place amongst the pastries and sweets, smiling bright and sending Mark a little wave, as if he didn't just had to admit defeat and lose a customer.

What a strange little beast.

***

Days pass and the world welcomes the proper arrival of spring, with fresh mornings and little strawberries that are just starting to turn red at their very tips. The cherry trees are in full bloom, trembling clouds of petals floating over the parks and some dotting the streets, freezias colouring the neighbourhoods, rosebuds shivering over fences.

Clear skies and soft breezes lead Mark away from the city on one such blue and bright morning, through the grassy fields and the carriage tracks that have started to form in the tall grass around the roadways, towards the harbour. The auspicious weather has brought many ships on fast and on long trips, the alcove in the rock of the cliffside being crowded most of the day. The downhill and, given the season's weather, safe road to the docs is living its days of glory, ceaselessly treaded by sailors, salesmen, convoys of trade and mothers with their children. Close to the loading docks there has sprouted a small makeshift market of all odd sorts, colourful tents swelling with wind and crowds, the walkways slippery and fishy but cheerful under the sun, loud with passing steps and voices, laughter and haggling over goods. Some stalls have been set up a little ways further up the port, for those who come and those who go to the city, pre-made snacks and drinks and sometimes clothes and shoes offered readily by smiling men and women.

And a little further up the hill, at a safe distance from the waves of autumn and the gales of winter, there is the picturesque overseas post office, where it has been for many years now. The building is small, originally just a shabby hut that was conveniently midway uphill, so that the post wouldn't have to cross all the way, especially in bad weather; it has been expanded and rebuilt since, a still small building, with walls of red brick and roof tiles of cliff shards. Mark remembers it once had a white fence, which at some point was painted an eyesore of teal, before it was removed entirely, and now there is no garden outline, only flowers spilling in every direction, mingling with wild ones along the groves, spattering the area with dense, bright colours that can be seen from all the way down at the docs. It does bear the signs of its time from up close, the lower bricks a little mossy, the colour of the post sign faded and chipped here and there, same as the heavy wooden door; the path through the flowers is clear and tidy, however, and the horse station on the side is full of hay, the chimney smoking lazily.

Someone comes out the door -always left open during business hours-, and they pass by Mark without a glance, too busy examining the envelopes at hand. Mark has to hold his hat in place against the breeze, playfully trying to knock it off his head; he doesn't usually dress in suit and hat when he leaves the city, but the sun was too bright for him today, a bit tiring without some consoling shade in place.

When he enters, taking his hat off, there is an old man smoking his pipe behind the counter, and a younger woman sorting through baskets of envelopes, tidying them in boxes after brief inspection. There is not much inside the space besides the counter and the boxes, and a good few piled parcels in the corner, too large to fit anywhere else. A grandmother is knitting by the nearly forgotten fireplace, and a little child is playing with straw dolls of animal shapes on a small mat in front of her, on the pale wooden floor. It's a family, Mark vaguely remembers, only the father and husband missing, probably on his way to receive or deliver mailbags between the city and the harbour.

Approaching the counter, he greets the frowning old man and asks for his letter, which the old man relays to his daughter a little petulantly, displeased at the additional hustle. It's an unspoken complaint that Mark could have waited for his letter to arrive through city post, instead of coming all the way here to ask for it in person, but it's not unusual neither not allowed to receive mail in person from this post office; they are used to being more comfortable and laid back, less crowded than the city offices, but they are a frontier, regular post office at the end of the day, and Mark wants to get his hands on this letter as soon as possible. He's been waiting for it for weeks.

The lady asks for his city address again, picking up another basket, and Mark repeats himself patiently; she's the only one at work, and she is doing her best, so he can afford to leash his excitement and bide his time waiting a little longer.

Taeyong, in his last letter, wrote there was a newcomer at his riverside city. Mark visited once, at first skeptical of the tall buildings of steal and ample electricity and a gray, dark river swamped in crowds, but he did see the charm of singing, colourful life, of twinkling nighlights from high above, of shadows under bridges that see artists during the day and stolen kisses at night. It was different, metropolitan, and it fit Taeyong's wide, curious eyes, his bright smile, his quirky laugh when he gets breathless from joy. It might not be as personal as Mark's city, where their kin is tight-knit, but that doesn't mean their kin over there are strangers; they simply operate a bit differently. It's the same possessiveness and need for protection that drives them, and in a larger city the keepers are many for the strangers who enter, a well-guarded fortress that expands chaotically but moves in synchronisation. A newcomer is big news, and Mark is very curious to know more, now that more than a month has passed. And if he is honest, he misses his friend, and the comfort he finds in his written words is small, but nonetheless important to him.

He wonders if spring there looks anything like spring in Mark's city; he remembers more rain, but perhaps it is a good year.

Something bumps his ankle, and Mark looks down to find the child at his feet, stretching a toy towards him in an invitation that doesn't have words yet. Mark gives a tiny smile and tucks his hat under his arm, kneeling down next to the child so he can properly accept what looks like a straw cow in his hands, worn fabric of white and black patched together, with a small bell attached at the doll's neck. Mark jiggles it and moos at the kid, and he's rewarded by instant peals of laughter, so easy and bright and airy, the child nearly toppling over in mirth.

"Young man, you seem familiar" the grandma by the fireplace addresses him, as he gives the toy back to the child and stands up again, jiggling sounds filling the room.

"I live in the city" he explains vaguely, with a polite, kind expression that's not quite a smile at the old lady. She seems satisfied by his answer, weak eyes returning to her knitting needles and the child playing in front of her. It's not just that he lives in the city. She was a merchant's daughter, and Mark, at a brief moment in time, used to give her piano lessons, when she was a girl just a little older than her grandchild, long before she grew up and fell in love with the postman. It is sometimes easy to escape the human memory, like this once, or tell a familiar lie that most have no choice but to believe, but it is just as necessary to live undetected for a while, not meddling in the everyday life of people in ways they might remember long thereafter.

He looks out the window for the rest of his stay at the post office, not one of the large ones that overlook the hills, but the tiny one that overlooks the harbour, big enough just to see the ships arriving, small enough to withstand the harsh sea winds. White sails stretch high and proud over the vessels, large and small, clustered together so close you'd think their anchors are tangled; they look like clouds, more solid and less fickle than the ones in the sky, floating in place. Colourful flags and market tents look like coloured ink splatters in every nook they could fit between gray rocks and the blue sea, and people seem tiny and loud, sheltered from the breeze that ripples the deep sea and sways the ships near the entrance of the port, pushing them to go faster, whistling over the rocks. Seagulls cry and sailors bark orders as boxes are carried by diligent ants, and the sun floods all the hues unobstructed, baking the rocks, glittering on the water. Waves roll one after the other.

***

It's full of contradictions. An enormous, open room being so crowded. Brilliant, dazzling lights in the middle of the night. Loud voices and laughter turning blurry as a soft buzz to the ears. Curious eyes and knowing smiles wandering amongst strangers. Expensive gowns and noble rings standing beside borrowed suits and tidy, hand-embroidered shawls.

It's a busy Saturday night at the opera, and the lobby is brimming with anticipation and colours, with excitement and voices. Tall hats and canes and frills, feathers and ribbons and jewels, polished shoes and long dresses that trail down the stairs have all gathered for the highly praised performance of the night, and for tonight it doesn't matter if the ticket is first class or in the furthest seat, bought after a moment's whim or after days of labour; such things are discussed, of course, in every corner and behind every shy fan in the crowd, but it still doesn't matter. Art is meant for everyone, music is for every soul. Children are looking up at the ornate chandeliers, the paintings on the ceiling, the curves and flourishings of the tall columns, the smoothe slope of the marble of the stairs flaring out. Dresses of bright fabric and delicate stitches look like elegant paint strokes, the lace and jewels shimmering in the lights against fair skin and flushed cheeks and cascading curls. Suits of all fabrics and buttons are mostly dark, straight lines, some hats forgotten on short heads, some cains poised to the side with wide confidence. It's warm, with every breath and laughter coming out of bodies thrumming with life, heartbeats, stern and reserved and enthusiastic and carefree, humming imperceptibly and filling the room with bubbling energy and a sweetness like perfume.

Standing beside the tall arches overlooking the stairs, Mark has a fairly interesting view. He could be any one of them in some life. He could be the humble gentleman with the frayed suit standing nervously on the side, with calluses in his hands and a smile of pure joy in his eyes, or the young play writer waiting enviously for a colleague's work, with holes in his pockets and ink stains on his wrists, or even the noble gentleman pretending to be quite bored of the praises that funnel his confidence. The possibilities are sometimes entertaining, other times dizzying and crippling. As for tonight, however, he is simply Johnny's undistinguished guest and, since Johnny is quite the prominent figure in the city, Mark is required to stand by him and join this advantageous view of the crowd as they meander and mingle, in wait of the performance.

Mark likes the opera. He likes the drama, the costumes, the music, the prose. He likes losing time within rich, painted walls, carpeted stairs, plush seats, golden gilded ceilings and sparkling chandeliers; he likes visiting other worlds and other times, just like reading a book but closer, almost a feeling on the skin, an easier life where rules and decisions are already made; he likes forgetting, exchanging his thoughts and memories for those of a fictional character, their woes, their choices, their joys. He might be in a unique position to have a wide selection of his own facades at his disposal, unhindered from adopting each for however long, however many times, lifetime after lifetime, and some details are different here and there, but it's always still Mark. It's another person's life each time, another past, another future, but it's his thoughts, his troubles, his feelings, his endless array of shaping memories; Mark only has a present. And being oneself for so long is so tiring; more than years, _that_ defines his age, weighs heavier with time.

But escaping is possible, through other humans, through art, through daydreams half-shaped, and it's a wonderful thing, so it's no wonder he visits the opera whenever he allows himself. In such mindset, he has a regular set of nondescript clothes he uses for the occasion, plain and decent enough to go unnoticed in a crowd, but Johnny was adamant that no escourt of his for the night could be, under any circumstance, _plain_. The entire city is watching, and it matters little if Mark remains anonymous and is forgotten by the end of the night, but the impression he will make and its reflection on Johnny's social record will last. It's been decades enough for Mark to know that Johnny's stubborness is unmatched in his games, therefore resistance was futile; being delivered his attire for tonight was met with resignation -and a twinge of something strange when he opened the door to an unfamiliar delivery man. Still, he has to admit, it's not the worst of Johnny's potential; a dark blue tailcoat with a pristine shirt and a silken scarf is modest enough for his taste, though elegant, expensive, well-tailored. Compared to Johnny's ostentatious, custom-made piece -as his social position calls for-, Mark looks unimpressive, simple, discreet, while not being outright shaby. He blends in, and most people don't notice him behind Johnny's charm and dazzle, but even those who do would have nothing unflattering to say, looking him up and down and giving him a tight smile, displeased at the lack of gossip. Mark merely stands tall and bides his time gazing around, waiting for the moment the lights dim and hush befalls the theatre, the transition to short-lived oblivion.

A hand grabs his wrist without warning, and Mark freezes, eyes darting down; it's too hands, small ones, and rather than him or his hand, they are more interested in his cufflink, the sculpted golden fleur de lis he doesn't even remember when he bought -probably years before anyone in the room was born. The little boy on his wrist traces its shape with curious eyes, holding Mark's hand just to hold him still for his inspection -Mark does tend to fidget sometimes, to be fair, so this little curious creature probably had to exert the limit of its patience.

"Hello?" he calls to the child gently, and a pair of round, warm brown eyes blink up at him, as if just realising he's standing there, a whole person. It's a look full of innocence, button nose and honey curls framing pink cheeks.

"Pretty" the boy mumbles in a small voice, probably fearing that he'll get reprimanded, but also unsure what to make of Mark's non threatening stance, his hand willingly held in place now.

"Where did you wander off again" an exasperated, hushed voice appears near them just at that moment, not quite posing a question, more of a reprimand, tailored to be appropriate for the time and place. The child apparently recognises it and drops Mark's hand like hot coals, scampering to the voice with wide eyes; but the strange thing is, Mark also recognises the voice, and his eyes follow the child to another child, a little girl in a cute, light blue dress, small hands holding onto a familiar figure.

The boy. Even here.

"Sorry, it was pretty" the little boy tries to attone, blinking large, apologetic eyes at the baker boy -his brother, if Mark had to guess, based on their visual similarity and closeness-, who hardly glances down at him, his hold tight on both children, while the rest of him is focused on Mark, seemingly equally shocked to meet him again.

It has been weeks. Maybe two, maybe three, if someone was counting. Almost a month then, and there has been no more unexpected deliveries to Mark's door every other morning before sunrise. If someone looked -and no one ever looks, because Mark makes sure his neighbours don't notice him anywhen-, they might have seen the bedroom's heavy curtain on the second floor of Mark's house being slightly pulled to the side on some mornings, a swift, sneak peek he'd never admit to sweeping the street outside. The boy cycled by on the first two days after Mark's visit to the bakery, holding the pedal but not slowing down either on his way down the street; maybe he even glanced at Mark's door under his hat, but Mark wouldn't know. Someone else delivered the bill Mark had requested to settle, but even before that, after those two first days, the boy didn't pass by his house and down the street again, probably figuring an easier route to his originally intended destination. To miss him would be too personal, so Mark settled that he'd have to forget about the boy, eventually, and stop stealing glances at the street before sunrise, convincing no one -and most prominently, not himself- that he's only watching the sky.

To meet him, to be standing so close so unexpectedly, is a little...fuzzy. It feels fuzzy, in his stomach. There is nothing odd or reproachable about the boy attending the performance tonight, however; the entire city seems to be attending, why not the boy and his siblings, too?

"Oh" is all Mark's brain very eloquently supplies, but at least it's not flat. It's dreadfully not flat. It's hard to contain, and he's inwardly struggling against it, but there is something about the boy that rings inside Mark like a fine metal touching against crystal.

"I apologise, sir, he's a little whirlwind" the boy says without even looking at him anymore, the words forming a line he's had to repeat in an appeasing, civilly apologetic tone over and over in the course of the evening, tugging his siblings closer by their small hands. There is no hat on his head, no four on his nose, no sleepiness on his lashes, but he's carrying the sun, in his brushed out curls, in his warm brown eyes, on his honey skin and gentle voice, glazing over supple, pink lips that part in wonder when Mark breathes out a direct greeting.

"Hello."

It sinks between them for a moment, a long dive and slow, the chatter around them, the children, the anticipation for the performance and the gossip behind fans fading to oblivion. It's a greeting of recognition, and the boy probably did not expect to be acknowledged by him, standing amongst prestigious gentlemen, any more than he had expected meeting him at all. Mark did not expect to acknowledge him either, as it means to invite curious eyes tentatively returning their interest to him in this awfully exposed social predicament, but he cares little of it at the moment, a rare moment, when his long, endless years of existence outweigh the imminent need to keep a low profile amongst humans, making their fleeting opinions unimportant in comparison to the tirelessly honed drive that centuries instill in his kin. The boy blinks, a little lost, gaze shifting minutely behind Mark, around him, without a specific focus, just a general appraisal to confirm what he already knows. But the boy is brave, smart, more than a humble baker boy, a noble beast of other times that Mark is a remnant of, and most others around him are a desolate testament to falling from grace, so he straightens his posture, draws his courage, right in front of Mark.

"Hello, Mr. Lee" he returns, polite and steady, with an impeccably graceful bow of the head, eyes shining in the chandelier reflections when he looks up at Mark, lips curving ever so slightly in the corner. _Oh, so he remembers._ The wavy collar of his shirt with the little black bow, suddenly, _dangerously_ , seems very interesting to Mark for some reason, so he actively tries to keep his eyes above, locked with the boy's beautiful eyes, warm and deep and shockingly certain, with the mighty confidence of his position as if he were a high lord. It's a force, a charge that something in Mark instinctively responds to, like magnets and skies of rain clouds, unseen pressure swathing over his body and clinging, tighter, inescapable; the boy stares back as if he has something to prove, maybe nothing to prove, just to look, up close and commit to memory, unrepentant, faintly intrigued. Mark's lips slowly start to rise in the corner, a small voice in his head whispering that the boy can be quite hypnotising under the hundred lights of chandeliers and the velvet tapestries.

"Do you like the opera?" a small voice breaks their standstill, and Mark blinks, attention shifting to the child that grabbed his hand earlier, doe eyes staring up at him curiously as he hangs off of his grip on his older brother's hand, swaying closer to Mark, trying to figure him as a tentative new acquaintance. "It's our first time at the opera. Hyuck comes more often, but he always comes by himself" he babbles on naively, his lips pursing into a pout that resembles his brother. The little girl on the boy's other hand nods in agreement, shier, half hidden behind their older sibling, but not as shy as to avoid Mark entirely. Mark exchanges an animated look with both children, just to play.

"Oh?" he questions, tilting his head slightly to the side. He assumes brother Hyuck is the boy, and what is more interesting, the boy seems to like the opera. His inspection eventually ends on the boy in question, and his siblings' intervention seems to have broken his composure, lashes fluttering hard.

"Uh-I am Hyuck" he mumbles, fast and a little flustered; Mark raises his brows in amusement. The boy blinks at that too, a little awed, and then shakes his head and repeats, more composed. "Donghyuck. Lee Donghyuck." _So, Donghyuck._ It's a pretty name. It suits him. It still sounds flustered. Mark's lip line breaks at that, curves in the tight way that dents his cheek, making him look a bit smart and a bit softer, certainly amused. The boy parts his lips; they tremble mutely around a word as he takes Mark in, and Mark's smirk widens just a little, beyond his control, infinitely more delighted with the boy's unusual silence. Donghyuck abruptly breaks eye contact as a last resort, and focuses on his siblings to continue. "These are two of my siblings" he introduces, swinging their linked hands, which makes the kids smile up at him. _Two out of how many_ , Mark wonders, the boy's impression shifting in his head; he's not just young and bright as sunshine, he's working to sustain a family and raises younger siblings every day, he's sneaking away to cliff sides and to glimpse at performances and beautiful lights, and he even managed to bring the little ones with him to enjoy the opera. The look the children exchange with him is soft and fond, gentle as a ship gliding into peaceful waters, and the same gaze is still in Donghyuck's eyes when he looks up at Mark. He returns a hint of a smile that feels too humble to compare.

"Pleasure" he says quietly, bowing his head a little as is socially proper -or was, at some point in the past. He thinks he should be a bit daring, even just for the kids' sake, much more for the pleasure of a proper introduction to the boy, of the thrilling possibility of his name curled on those pink lips that know to smile so blindingly bright; he should reciprocate the full introduction. It's a disarmingly easy decision. "I'm-"

"Mark!" another voice finishes for him, familiar in an alarming way which makes him shiver, as a warm hand rests on his back, slides to the side on his shoulder blade comfortably. 

Oh no, not now.

He turns to the newest addition to their small company, smile a little frozen on his lips and eyes wide in a silent, reproachful warning, as Johnny comes fully into view with the clear intention to join them, friendly smile full of teeth and pristine manners on display. "You have company?" he prompts a moment later, and though usually he is frustratingly patient, now he seems significantly excited, too much so to watch the flame without stretching his fingers to its warmth; any exception to Mark's reclusive life unfailingly piques Johnny's interest in the recent decade. His fingers drum against Mark's shoulder, a secret communication, hidden from view.

"This is Mr. Lee Donghyuck" Mark affably introduces, hoping he sounds pleasant, polite. The name tastes sweet on his tongue, rolls off musically, it makes his breath sound full. The flutter in his gut is rather unlikely to reach his voice, but the honey drizzle in his thoughts, linking and sticking them together, could afflict some confusion or hesitation if he's not careful. One glance at the boy, Donghyuck, and his wide eyes are too bright to hold coherently, so Mark looks at the awed pair of children instead and gives them half a smile, making a subtle gesture of introduction that belonged in another century without thinking, but without anyone -except for Johnny, maybe- noticing it either. "And his lovely siblings" he adds in a gentle tone. The children tiptoe and lean in wonder towards Johnny and his fancy clothes and friendly smile, as the latter shakes hands with Donghyuck, a noticeable difference in size that makes Mark irrationally wonder how their hands would fit, how warm the boy's skin is.

"Lovely, indeed" Johnny muses, still holding onto the boy's hand, who looks a bit too distracted by Johnny's general presence to take it back; perhaps he knows who Johnny is, has heard of him, perhaps he can guess his social standing, or maybe he's captured by his natural charm, his colourful clothes, his impressive beauty. "I'm Johnny, Mark's friend. I think I've seen you before, somewhere..." he trails off, seemingly innocent, but Mark's dear friend is being very sneaky, Mark knows him well enough to know that. The quirk in his eyebrow gives him away. "What is your profession, young man?"

Young man? As if they look that much older. And...Donghyuck's profession. How condemning his next words will be, although no one could ever fault him.

"I run a bakery with my family, near Swan Park" Donghyuck provides readily, proud of his hard work and small business, maybe a bit pleased that Johnny, with his mighty appearance and close standing to Mark, was considerate enough to ask; he'd probably make a good customer too. Mark is suddenly less than thrilled at the very realistic prospect, but there is not much he can object to.

"Oh, a bakery!" Johnny enthusiastically muses, definitely connecting the dots; how many baker boys does Mark know? How many would be pretty enough to remember. Johnny pats Mark on the back knowingly, not comiserating but teasing, and he finally lets go of a handshake that has lasted too long, unnoticed by those immediately concerned. Mark noticed. "I'm very fond of pastries, perhaps I should visit soon-"

No sooner does the world start turning thorny and dark with dread for Mark than a chiming sound echoes above all voices in the room, and he hurries to bring it to attention before the conversation between a not-so-innocent and a blissfully oblivious party escalates to his weary future.

"The bell!" He pipes up, a bit too vigorously, too nervously, gaining a half-odd, bewildered look from the boy, and a poorly masked, smug and knowing smirk from Johnny. "We should probably go inside" he adds, notably more composed, for the children's favour. For his waning pride, too. The crowd has already started to sway towards the grand doors, never having enough of the lobby conversations but ultimately interested in the show as well.

"Yes!" The little boy agrees with him with an excited jump, a small hand anchoring in his again, but this time with a different intention, to follow him in, already a friend.

"No" his brothers pulls him back sternly, till the hand slips away from Mark's hold. He's a little pink in the cheeks, embarrassed by the child's presumption. "I'm sorry" he apologises again, too nervous to hold Mark's gaze for long, but Mark reassures him it is no trouble. As it might be expected, they are not going in together, different seats amongst different crowds, but kids don't care about such nuances, such insignificant details; Mark shares the sentiment, not out of inexperience but of the exact opposite. Donghyuck gathers the children close to him for good measure, not to lose them in the crowd, the gowns fluttering by and gentlemen stretching their canes and children weaving through every crack they can find in the steadily intensifying flow of people as they pour into the theatre. "It was a pleasure, gentlemen" he bids his goodbyes with a dignified bow of the head, in spite of his flushed cheeks, hurrying along the rest. Mark bows his head politely, Johnny mirroring the gesture with a wide grin.

"Likewise" he calls after his newest acquaintances with a light and charming wave of the hand, ever so effortlessly social, "Enjoy the show!"

Donghyuck cracks half a smile before he disappears in the crowd, replaced by other faces, shoulders, hands, eyes. Johnny eventually takes Mark's arm and joins the rest on their shared path to their velvet seats, holding his cane off the ground, so happy with himself. Mark raises an eyebrow at the general cheerfulness that was not as noticeable before.

"Did you enjoy the show?" he asks, a little bitter and petulant as a jilted lover, and Johnny laughs, loud and unhindered beside his ear above the noise of the crowd.

"Oh, very much" he giggles.

***

He's upside down. Not that it ever mattered to Renjun, who is very fond of comfortable places, and one such place happens to be Mark's chaise longue, where the younger man is currently lounging, with his knees hung over the back and the rest of him sprawled on the seat cushion. It would be futile to argue with him over this; if it's comfortable, it just is, and Renjun might be small but he gets prickly and bites too much for his size if he gets annoyed and slighted. So Mark lets him be, idly swinging his feet and gazing at the ceiling of the living room, while Mark occupies the secrétaire, writing with his old-fashioned quill -Taeyong likes his calligraphy with it better than the similar but less artful letters he produces with more modern pens.

The sun is high enough in the sky by now, but Mark's curtains block out most of it. Their shadows create geometric lines of light and darkness in contrast, all across the room, bending in sharp corners to trail around furniture, but still remaining as straight as possible. Some glass ornament is reflecting rainbows on the ceiling -presumably, Renjun's point of attention. He's like a lazy cat, basking in the warmth and watching the dust fly in the sun, occasionally sighing for unfathomable reasons, mayhaps no reason at all, just for comfort. Most would say that he doesn't fit this peaceful, rural city, he's too sharp for it, too feral, and in part it's understandable, because Renjun was made and shaped in much larger, faster, colder cities, the vast kind that Taeyong prefers, but it was obvious when Taeyong found him that Renjun was not meant for such places, even if he could make himself fit there seamlessly; it was overwhelming for him, keeping him on edge, haunted, wound tight as an arrow that kept hurting everyone. It's been years since he was sent to Mark, and he has adjusted impressively well since, turning tamer, more relaxed, happier even. He doesn't need to run and hide and fight here, to stay afloat as a relatively younger one of their kin, he can wander and explore and observe safely, his curiosity and creativity spinning wildly. Mark remembers the first weeks, when he'd been fostering Renjun in this very house -the only reason Renjun doesn't mind staying in Mark's lair for more than necessary, comfortable with his scent in this space, and the most usual reason he comes here to visit on occasion, nostalgia bringing him to Mark's doorstep every now and then. He was scared, back then, intimidated by Mark's rank that followed Taeyong's, who was a near stranger to him with a proposition to relocate him to a more suitable place. Mark remembers the bared teeth, the way Renjun spent most of his days curled in on himself in any guarded corner, until he had observed enough to trust Mark, tentatively, then accept his tutelage and meet their city, later on moving out on his own, when he felt safe enough.

A fond smile curls on Mark's lips, eyes on his unfinished correspondence, but his fingers keep the pen dipped in ink for a moment longer. Renjun's temperament fits, yes, but his appearance and manners will always feel a bit less tame, probably; he's a better sample of their kin, compared to Mark's aloof reclusivity and Johnny's social joviality. Renjun has the sharp eyes, the tempting air, the lithe body lines that seduce and frighten, from his slim legs and waist, to his pale neck and fingers. He looks more otherworldly, even lounging on a chaise longue with his arms thrown over his head on the cushions and his legs propped up, black locks of silken hair fanned over one shoulder, a few shorter ones falling in his eyes and on his cheeks. Mark puts his letter aside and decides to draw in simple carbon on paper, to send the picture to Taeyong, who always asks about his rescue kitten in his letters to Mark.

Taeyong will like it. He's the one who taught Mark how to draw, after all. _In such a long life, some things you'll want to remember, and some things you'll want to forget, so capture them both in ink_ , he'd said, years and years ago.

"Your house is so quiet" Renjun eventually breaks the silence, but it's a gentle break, smooth as if the words are only rising to the surface from the depths, like blooming lilies. Mark hums under his breath, most of his focus on his paper and his rapidly smudged fingers, on the narrow edges and wider, used ones of his coal piece, the pressure, dencity, the swipe of his index finger giving texture.

"So is yours" he answers absently, tilting the paper in an effort to keep the light balanced. He redraws the hair locks, making them darker. Renjun sighs, airy and short, and Mark recognises it as the mildly displeased one with the miniscule amount of attention he's getting. What was the conversation? Oh, the house. Yes, Renjun's house is just as quiet, tucked in between buildings with ornate doors and thin windows and stairs surrounded by low verdure; it's beneath street-level, but it has a charming gate and a path that worths a stride to cross, the shrubs and flowers of the neighbouring houses invading the rest of what might had been a garden once. It has narrow and tall windows facing the street, making sure most of the cold stays outside in winter, and a wide one at the back, overlooking a tidy yard, and Renjun has placed a couch right in front of it so he can soak in the summer sun -sometimes draw in secret, but he'd never admit it, especially to Taeyong. It's a small house, probably looks smaller with all the cluttered treasures Renjun gathers ceaselessly, but it's charming and smells sweet like him. Still, Johnny has by far the largest and noisiest house of them currently, a proper mansion with butlers and maids, friends, business partners, guests, people in general coming and going all day.

"I have lively neighbours, the street outside is busy" Renjun counters, stubborn as if it's a matter of dignity. Most of them don't usually have an affinity for noise and light -although there are obvious exceptions and that is not entirely unusual either-, but they do live in civil conditions, and that comes with a varying but certain amount of noise. Even Renjun lives by shuffling feet and voices, car tiers crunching, horses galloping by, footsteps of heels and canes and children brushing by each other, their footprints invisible on the pavement. Mark has chosen a very quiet place to live, that's fair and true, away from the centre, where most of life and business blooms in a hubbub of daily fluctuating melodies, but there are still sounds of life. There are birds in the neighbour's tree, kids riding their bikes up and down the street, the rare car that passes by, people greeting each other at their windows, cooking, cleaning, washing, laughing, fighting, chasing the day. It's subtle most of the time, but it's all he needs.

A bird flutters by the window, startled by a playful cat, its shadow travelling in the room and disappearing.

"It's a different kind of quiet" Renjun says, and he doesn't need to explain.

"I sleep better like this" Mark shrugs his shoulders, adding small shades to his drawing. He does sleep better with less whispery noise, and the rest of his days are equally peaceful; it's comfortable to wander in the house if he can't go outside, and he can come and go at odd hours without worrying there might be eyes watching him -after all, he can adapt to an odd schedule only so much, returning before dawn when he leaves to feed, so that the neighbours won't notice. They are not close enough to see through his windows, they don't mind his quiet demeanor since he is at least polite to them, they don't get too many questions about him. It's a separate little world, his own, that goes unnoticed. It's easier.

"But it's _morning_ " Renjun whines, insisting it's too quiet for his taste and making an effort to change that, apparently. Mark catches movement with the corner of his eye, just a flailing arm obscurely protesting at the ceiling. "There should be some action, excitement" he says, and Mark smiles privately; much like the cat that was chasing the bird outside, Renjun sometimes wants to play, and it sounds like he's in one of those moods. Mark, on the other hand, appreciates conducting his correspondence on a tranquil, sunny morning. He's lived long enough to know himself as much, to know how much light and noise and action he prefers.

The shuffling sounds are indicative of Renjun adjusting in his seat, folding his legs like a butterfly on the cushions and sitting up, probably fixing his hair a little, based on the movement in Mark's peripheral vision -though, knowing Renjun, he just as probably does nothing about his askew, open collar.

"Maybe you can call your baker boy back, that would be interesting" he baits, not teasing like Johnny, but making it casual, disturbingly realistic. Mark's fingers pause over the nearly finished drawing, and there is a moment of silence, of bated breath, before he lifts his eyes and decides he doesn't want to talk about it, sending a warning look at the younger. Renjun doesn't seem confrontational at all, clothes all black and a little rumpled as expected, pale white skin showing on his neck, his forearms, hands and collarbones, expression open, dark hair smoothly bound in a ponytail on the side of his neck. Mark looks sternly into his eyes and Renjun looks back, and for a while nothing happens. Then Mark reckons he's made his point, so he averts his gaze back to the drawing, adding gray hair strands that fall on the eye corners, like on the real life one.

"Johnny said you know him personally" Renjun says after a long pause, undeterred, not letting go, though his tone is still conversational and it is probably unfair of Mark to feel so easily frustrated by his harmless insistence. Renjun was not at the opera the last time, but he has met with Johnny in the meantime, and it's only natural that he is curious. It does nothing to ease Mark's anxious avoidance of the topic, and he sighs in contained frustration that he doesn't recognise, setting aside his coal.

"I know his _name_ " he emphasizes resentfully, unenthusiastically turning in his chair to face Renjun as the younger drags him unwillingly into this conversation. He only hopes it's a short one.

It's like staring at an enigmatic cat. Silent and focused. Expecting something maybe, expecting nothing probably. Just a stretch, to see how far the silence goes. Or maybe intricate innermost thoughts. A dramatic pause that might be intentional or not, the only certain thing about it is that it must feel longer for Mark than Renjun, longer than it objectively is. Mark refuses to think about it. Renjun's lines are crisp black and regal in Mark's cosy living room, a background of dark wood furniture in shadows, pillows, books and blankets, and an old vase that hasn't been graced with flowers yet this season. Mark is under observation, sharp eyes watching for the tiniest hint of something, so he keeps his thoughts occupied with tangible distractions. Eventually, entirely too long later, Renjun tilts his head inquiringly, his hair looping out of his ponytail like ribbons.

"Do you want anything else?"

Mark turns so still he could have been carved in marble, his thoughts missing the next fragile link of distraction, skidding to a halt. Of course Renjun was thinking all along, of course he could pick Mark apart like a wildrose, of course he'd ask a question that would fit like a key. It unlocks the box Mark has been trying to keep chained in a corner, filling his mind in wisps that untangle, well combed after the many times he'd refuse he's thought them over.

Does he want anything else; the answer should be no, nothing. A boy he once knew by the name is enough, a fragment of memory with clean-cut edges, with the light of the sun and the warmth of sweet pastries. But dreadfully, Mark slowly realises that he might want...everything. He wants everything else. He wants to know what Donghyuck looks like in the sunset, how his hands feel, how far he'd go if he weren't afraid to tease, what makes him cross and displeased. He wants to know about his siblings and the bakery and his favourite opera, and the sound of his voice humming songs. He'd like to know his dearest flower, the scents and food he prefers, the days and seasons changing on him, the small habits no one else notices. He wants his laugh, his exhaustion, the warm taste of his blood and the softness of his skin under Mark's lips, the skin on his neck, shoulders, wrists, all over his tantalising body. He wants his warmth in the morning that only his pillow knows, the scent of his skin in the sheets, his presence, his touch. Forbidden things, all of them. Forgotten too, by someone like Mark.

There is a faint knock on the door, short, in a timid rather than a hurried way, and it derails Mark's brewing thoughts, blowing them away like a cloud of smoke and ashes. He's not expecting anyone, but it is rare for someone to walk up to his doorstep without reason, so he should probably answer, in case there is something urgent -even minutely, nowhere near the urgency to distance himself from such unbidden, ferocious thoughts. Thankfully, Renjun doesn't seem too unyielding on the matter, or displeased that his question remained rhetoric -Mark is not entirely sure he didn't mean it as such in the first place-, and the younger rises from his seat mirroring Mark, a perky grin on his lips.

"Oh? I sense excitement" he mumbles between the two of them, shuntering up to Mark, his sharp eyes trained in the direction of the door down the hallway. It wouldn't be wise of him to appear in Mark's house, however; an unknown and mysterious young boy lounging in the neighbourhood midmorning would probably raise questions, so Mark pinches his nose to stop him on his tracks, ignores the little yelp.

"Be good" he says, in the same way he used to when Renjun was first staying with him all those years ago; it sounds reminiscent, and very much like they've lived through it before. Mark sounds older, always much older.

Renjun's lower lip juts out in a displeased pout but he stays put, leaning on the doorframe so he can spy down the hallway unseen, and he doesn't protest at all when Mark passes him by, heading for the door. It's probably a good sign, because Renjun is not as eager to sneak around playfully as Johnny, or he's not as such with Mark at least, after the long time he's had to listen and follow Mark's rules to adjust in his new life. The door remains silent while Mark approaches, but when he opens it, there is someone still waiting outside.

"Hi"

A little breathless, when their eyes meet.

Of all the people who could stray to Mark's door, he'd been expecting him the least. In fact, Mark thought he'd never see this sight again, after he annulled the only reason Donghyuck could possibly have to visit him. But here they are, a surprised Mark and an uncharacteristically nervous Donghyuck, staring at each other in the doorway, and the world has missed a spin.

"Hello" Mark remembers his manners, tilting the door to block the view from the inside, so that Renjun won't be able to take a closer look. It's bad enough that Johnny teases him, and he has somehow looped Renjun in, but Mark doesn't need that much embarrassment in his life. He suddenly feels petty and unreasonably annoyed at Renjun, as if it's his fault Donghyuck is here, as if he spoke it into existence. Facing Donghyuck at the moment, he carefully instructs his lips to form a tight, polite smile. For some reason, Donghyuck keeps looking directly into Mark's eyes as if hypnotised, uncaring of the rest, if one could feel so while being as tense as Donghyuck looks, shoulders rigid, hands tightly clenched, jaw locked shut, apprehensive like he's never been before when meeting Mark. Mark doesn't think he looks particularly threatening today to warrant such a reaction, he's dressed rather casual for the morning and he's making an effort to look friendly even, so when a few long beats of silence pass, without Donghyuck's usual babbling, without Donghyuck _breathing_ , Mark decides to help things along. "Can I help you?"

He really doesn't know if he can. Donghyuck has arrived on his trusty, unpleasant bike, currently balanced on his side, the basket empty. He is dressed in a white shirt and suspenders, comfortable day pants in gray with small threads of white here and there, and he's holding his hat in one hand, probably having finished his delivery rounds for the day, like any other morning that did not involve Mark. The only parcel left is the one he is holding, so tight the brown paper has creased, but this couldn't possibly be another mistake. His hair looks lighter in the sun, his cheeks bright and water-coloured cherry red from riding a bike all morning.

"Uhm…" he mumbles, blinking his pretty lashes and licking his lips, briefly glancing down at his hands before he looks at Mark again, less dazed, more focused. "I have a special delivery today" he quips cheerfully, more like himself, with the flourish of a blinding grin that creases his eyes adorably -and Mark finds himself stunned, mechanically accepting a parcel like every other time without thinking, not even minding the crawling sense of dejavu under his skin, hopelessly mesmerised by the boy's smile. _Hardly the time for it_ , Mark tries to gather his thoughts, not to make a fool of himself -suddenly very aware of Renjun eavesdropping on this exchange.

A...delivery, then. A special one? Mark feels his face rippling in confusion, but it doesn't deter Donghyuck, who, without the parcel in his hands, seems to relax just a sliver, and carries on.

"When we met at the opera last week, you made a lasting impression on my siblings. They asked if we were friends, if I could give you something, and they decided to make biscuits for you -they insisted on this shape" he explains, words pouring out fast and animated, tinted with a flustered edge. Mark curiously nudges open the top of the box, since Donghyuck keeps staring and gesturing at it, and the biscuits inside smell of butter, pale and shaped in an approximate imitation of an iris bloom -like Mark's cufflinks. The child had found them pretty, he recalls. Maybe they thought he'd like this shape. It's very sweet, and he can't resist a private smile, balancing the box in one hand and closing it securely with the other; he can't enjoy the biscuits, but he can enjoy the gesture.

Donghyuck looks significantly calmer, now that his gift -his siblings' gift- has been accepted, holding his hat with both hands without gripping it for dear life, his posture and features as comfortable as his past experience on this doorstep allows him. He hesitates for a moment, plush lips parting and closing again indecisively as he looks Mark in the eyes, and when he speaks again, his voice is more quiet.

"I wasn't sure I should bother you with this, but it was because of your account paid in full that we even managed to afford the tickets to the opera, so if anything, please accept this as a thank you gift" he says, glancing once at the box before sending Mark a hopeful, small smile, innocently round eyes and curved lips making him look so young, small, even though he's not that much shorter.

"I see" Mark hums very quietly in turn, uncomfortably feeling his years weigh down on his chest. He doesn't need to be thanked for showing some decency, he hardly thought anything of it when he paid for the false deliveries like he insisted on moral grounds, but he supposes such unexpected blessings are sadly not fixed for a hardworking family. Mark wasn't always as carefree about survival either, his indulgences were rare and tiny, and he remembers, he can relate to the feeling, to the fragile pride Donghyuck is trying not to break with his expression of gratefulness. He taps his fingers on the box and changes the subject before he becomes sentimental. "Did you enjoy the performance?" he asks with an amenable expression, only now realising that Donghyuck had been watching him, and his expression had turned more serious along the way.

"Hm?" he questions, a little distracted or disoriented by the sudden change, but he catches up in a heartbeat, cheering up again. "Oh, yes, very much, the kids liked it, too" he beams, and it's almost too bright to look away, like the midmorning sun that reflects in the sky. One of his hands rests on the bicycle beside him, more open and comfortable, conversational, as he chuckles in private amusement. "They keep asking when we can go again, I'm being vague about it"

Mark almost lets out half a laugh at that, imagining the small children being persistent and their brother teasing them in turn, the pouts and the laughter it must involve; he feels a strange curiosity for it, but before he has a chance to say anything, the door moves beside him.

"Mark, I found your handkerchief" Renjun appears, holding a blue handkerchief indeed, that Mark neither lost nor had been searching for. Donghyuck grips his bike at the unexpected appearance -even more shocking by the surreal occurrence that someone else is in Mark's house, since it has not happened before- and stares at their unrepentant interruption with wide, uncertain eyes. Renjun looks up at Mark as if he's completely innocent, only trying to help in a well-meaning, naive way, but Mark knows Renjun, and he's not innocent or naive; he simply got too tempted to bear any longer, too curious to see for himself the baker boy at the door, and he found a clever excuse for it. He does press the handkerchief to Mark's hands, however, which brings to his attention the coal stains he hadn't thought of or noticed before.

"Oh" he breathes, looking at the smudged prints he's been leaving on the box Donghyuck gifted him, and rather than scolding Renjun or kicking him back inside to save himself the embarrassment, he takes the proffered cloth to wipe his fingers, maneuvering the box. He doesn't tell Renjun he has a comical black smudge on his nose out of spite. "Thank you, Renjun. This is Lee Donghyuck" he introduces briefly, while shifting the box from hand to hand to wipe his fingers clean, and that's all the pleasantries he's willing to enact between the two; he's uncertain whether Renjun knows who the name belongs to, if Johnny mentioned it too, but he's sure the younger is smart enough to piece together the boy and the bike at Mark's door. Mark won't give him the satisfaction of saying anything more that could be used against him later.

"I'm Renjun" the younger picks up, undeterred, and instead of reaching for a handshake, to Mark's utter horror, he steps out and closer to Donghyuck, who is not standing that far to begin with, a reasonable social distance that Renjun blatantly disregards. "I'm Mark's little cousin" he adds, and Mark is already mortified by this exchange. They are not cousins by any means, but they could pass as such if one squints, both looking pale and lean, with similarly dark hair. The details are vastly different, so much it'd be ridiculous to believe any credible relation between them after a closer inspection, but at first glance it's not as striking as Johnny's warmer colours and sturdy built compared to them. Besides, it explains why Renjun would be in Mark's house in the morning, so he doesn't feel very enthusiastically inclined to counter the statement. He's in a pinch, he can't be too picky or take risks, so just this once he'll be thankful for Renjun's quick wits.

"O-oh" Donghyuck stutters, blinking at Renjun, who is standing close enough to be considered an invasion of personal space -and Mark is not sure that inflicting such mild discomfort is entirely accidental, judging by the sharp eyes picking Donghyuck apart. To others, Renjun doesn't look as approachable as Johnny or distant like Mark, he looks wilder, dangerous, even when he's just harmlessly curious as he is now, like a cat experimentally flexing its claws over your neck while looking deep in your eyes searchingly. Donghyuck looks like he makes an effort to look more agreeable, forcing some tension away from his tightly raised shoulders, showing forth a polite -if wobbly- smile. "Nice to meet you"

"Hmm" Renjun hums, uncaring of proper etiquette _again_ , and Mark considers pulling him back by the collar and hauling him inside in a hasty retreat, to salvage whatever dignity he has left. But then Renjun, with his askew collar and loose hairstyle and lithe edges, does the unthinkable, leaning even closer to Donghyuck to take a not at all subtle _whiff_.

Mark wants to scream, he's already screaming inside, but he's too shocked frozen to act in whichever way.

"You smell sweet" Renjun has the audacity to say as he straightens his body to his previous position, bringing into view a very weird expression on an equally frozen Donghyuck. _Does he really smell sweet_ , Mark wonders for a moment, before he catches and reprimands himself, because that is wildly inappropriate. Scent is always different for each human, clearly identifiable in their blood but otherwise vague, unlike their kin, and it's deemed very personal, much like to their kin, whose own scents are easily identifiable but also very personal. It must be even stranger for a human to listen to such a thing, receiving it as a very bizarre compliment perhaps, because Donghyuck takes it in stride, his brief confusion replaced by a smile more genuine than before.

"I'm a baker" he provides, and Mark notices Renjun's brows twitching minutely, privately amused since Mark and his baker boy have become a sort of dignified inside joke. He's later going to pull Renjun's ear for this, like he used to when Renjun was still his uncooperative pupil. Oblivious to Mark and his murderous glare at Renjun, who is still acting innocent and watches the baker boy closely with contemplative eyes, Donghyuck shrugs his shoulders lightheartedly, humouring his new acquaintance. "Perhaps it's all the sugar"

"Does it get absorbed through the skin?" Renjun asks in the next beat, and he sounds genuinely curious, he _is_ genuinely curious, Mark can tell; for all of Mark's reclusive ways, Renjun is the one with the least experience with humans, too frightened to go near unless absolutely necessary when he was in chaotic, loud cities, and far more interested in inventions and observation than the humans themselves after he settled here. But Donghyuck couldn't possibly know all this, so Mark feels morally obligated to protest on his behalf, his own limit long overcome.

"Renjun!" he calls strictly, and it's enough to convey it all; the younger knows a reprimand when he hears it from Mark, his head whipping around to face his old teacher instantly, with a meekly apologetic look in his eyes.

Both of them are surprised when Donghyuck laughs mirthfully a moment later, a crystal sound, but it's clearly unrelated to Mark's discipline, he wouldn't be as indiscreet, more as though he has just realised Renjun's earlier words and finds them funny in their eccentricity.

Both are even more surprised when Donghyuck reaches out, effortlessly as if he has done it a million times, to pat the top of Renjun's hair affectionately.

No one touches Renjun so easily, especially strangers. Strangers can't even stand being so close to Renjun for so long. The person Renjun most grudgingly loves is Taeyong, because the latter refused to ever be intimidated by him and leave him alone. The first time Johnny accidentally expressed his characteristic tactile affection to their youngest companion, Renjun swiped at his hand. For a long time, Mark and Johnny didn't reach out for Renjun if he didn't touch them first, and now they can be casual only because they've come to know how to read his moods so well. Humans don't brush by him, they don't confront him, they get uncomfortable, skittish and scared if they are the point of his attention for long. And Donghyuck, this strange brave beast that keeps surprising Mark each time they meet, ruffles the top of Renjun's hair as if it's natural.

"You are so cute" he quips, and hearing the subtle though distinct undertone in his voice helps Mark make sense of it. He's heard it once before, when Donghyuck was referring to his younger siblings. Considering that Renjun introduced himself as Mark's younger cousin, and he's been naive and blatant and unforgivably honest, curious, forward and insistent, it is no surprise it provoked a rather conventional reaction out of Donghyuck, one he'd probably have at his siblings too.

Mark has the privilege -and secret satisfaction- of watching Renjun's shocked face, with its horrified, wide eyes and pale lips, slowly turning into an almost offended expression, disgruntled and still a little disbelieving. He faces Donghyuck as the latter draws his hand back, unrepentant. And it's frankly hilarious, because a human stranger a quarter his age finds Renjun _cute_ , and Renjun is too affronted to even say anything, staring at the human with a strange expression and indignantly parted yet hopelessly silent lips. Johnny will tease him about it for decades.

Mark disguises a short laugh that escapes him as a cough, hiding it behind his handkerchief, so kindly offered to him earlier, but if Renjun's sharp attention shooting at him like an arrow and his dark frown are any indication, the younger one is not fooled. Thankfully, Donghyuck, this heaven sent torture and blessing, takes advantage of the distraction to mount his bike with his tall legs and prepares to depart, mushing his golden curls in his hat.

"I have to go now"

"Of course, don't let us keep you" Mark says politely, taking Renjun's hand and guiding him inside, effectively hiding him behind the door and letting him rest and recover. Mark's eyes never leave the boy, greedily taking in each second as if it may be the last. It might be. "Thank you for these, it was very kind of you" he adds, indicating the box of biscuits.

"I'll pass it on" Donghyuck grins, backtracking on Mark's garden path while still on his bike, pebbles crunching under the wheels and his shoes. He waves a hand goodbye when he's out of the gate, the sun so bright in the sky at this hour that it's almost blinding to look at from such distance. "Have a good day" he calls, loud and jolly, and Mark returns the wave and the greeting, watching him ride his bike into the street, opposite of his usual direction, but disappearing in the light and the colours of the day just as fast.

Mark goes back inside, to find a mostly recovered Renjun -on the surface, at least. He might have to nurse his pride for longer, but Mark is not as heartless as to tease him about it right away.

"Interesting boy" Renjun muses, detaching himself from the wall in a smooth, lithe motion, to stand beside Mark. _Interesting_ is an understatement, but Mark doesn't comment on it. If Renjun's composed face in any hint, he's perfectly aware that his curiosity backfired, and perhaps won't wish to talk about it any further for today -which is more than welcome, as far as Mark is concerned. Unable to restrain his curiosity in all aspects, however, Renjun does lean closer to the box Mark is holding, examining it as if he can see through the material. "What are these? Hey-" he protests, when he's met with a blue cloth suddenly scrubbing his nose, scrunching his face and trying to get away from the unexpected attack, only to step back and meet the wall, Mark easily cornering him to clean the dry smudge of ink on his skin like a mother cat, diverting his attention in the process.

"Shush, you deserve it" is all he says, smiling when Renjun gives up fighting back and only whines a woeful lot.

***

The night is dark still, cloudy, the stars obscured. It's a good night to be out for his purposes. Some tales of the dark are true, he supposes.

He has walked a little further into the city than usual, to the residences near the centre, paradoxically scattered between and behind tall buildings meant for business and yet stacked one on top of the other. Space is precious in such a busy city, small houses touching on the sides, divided by empty roads and dark shops. They are close to each other, but they seem worlds apart. Each window has so much personality it couldn't be mistaken with the next, some of them glowing sleepily with forgotten, low lights under the curtains. Their dazed shine joins the flickering flames of the streetlights, like solitary lanterns on stone under a black sky; in the shadow of the clouds, it makes the air look hazy, like the mists of autumn but not quite as dense, like the bright sunlight of the day has washed away the colours even in darkness, even the darkness.

Mark hurries his steps. He doesn't need to loiter in this part of town and he doesn't particularly like it either. It's cold with humidity and noisy with whispery scurrying in the dark, his shoes echoing on the pavement, occasionally the metallic creak of a dumpster. He'd much prefer spending the night strolling his way home near his neighbourhood, slipping into the safety of his nest, into the comfort of his bed. His neighbourhood is less crowded, more familiar, it puts his mind at ease, and Mark's body longs to be sleepy now that it is warm. Warmth, he wants to burrow in it.

If he lets himself wonder, like this when he's most vulnerable to his instincts and desires, he feels an empty ache for something he doesn't have. He wonders what it would be like to lay down in soft sheets already warm, tangled around another body, scented of their skin, a sense of home outside of himself. He wonders what it would be like to be greeted by messy hair and velvet skin, to be received by gentle hands and a sleepy smile, an embrace that needs him. He wonders what it would be like to kiss goodnight constellations on golden skin, brush his hands over a perfectly contented pulse, feel an even breath on his neck, curls tickling his jaw, a small waist pressing against him, long legs entwining with his.

His hand stings and Mark clenches his fist tighter on purpose, grounding himself on the pain, slipping the cunning grip of such thoughts. His shoes are tired but determined as he rounds a corner, always walking near the walls and the shadows, a frontier of parked cars on the other side. The park across the street sends a cool breeze in greeting, leaves shivering in black waves that the moon would paint silver if it were visible at all. But tonight there is only the fog in the sky and amber streetlights, some blown out, colouring the world in shadows and vermillion streaks that fade to yellow. It has started to smell like rain, those that come later in spring, short and cooling, just enough to clear the air of dust. Mark would welcome the rain. He doesn't even mind getting caught in it this time, and it has little to do with the trench coat he's wearing and its minimal protection.

His hand stings, and he takes it out of his pocket to inspect the healing wound. He was uncharacteristically absentminded earlier, and he didn't notice the window was double, that its outer panel was broken, so when he expertly undid the latch, the sharp edge of glass bit into his skin. It didn't bleed much -he didn't have much blood to bleed out in that moment- and later, when he looked again, it had already started healing. The former gush is only a thin scratch now, it looks almost skin-deep and a little irritated, but that's always the most annoying part, the almost closed, stinging and itching, sometimes burning. He sighs in resignation and reckons the best he can do is hope it'll be completely gone by the time he reaches home.

Mark rounds another corner, and another, and he walks straight far enough in between that his surroundings have started to turn more familiar. There are still odd stains on the sidewalk, paint peeling off the iron gates, some cars parked by the roadside and dense architecture, but at least the streets are wider, the lights less harsh, the shops don't look eree with their dark windows. Trees are dotting the sidewalk, some bikes are tucked under stairs, garden greens and flowers spill out of the fences, curtains in narrow windows are very still in slumber, some cats cross the street leisurely.

The rain catches up, light as a whisper.

Mark feels the first droplets on his ears, on his cheeks, and idly thinks he should go to the cliffs one of these days, it's been a long time. Even if it rains, and the ships sail slowly one after the other, it would be nice to watch the day fly over the planes and cliffsides, inky clouds painting the sea dark, wet earth and salt mixing in the air.

By the time he reaches the residential area, he's thoroughly soaked. There is no exception under the rainclouds, and Mark's trenchcoat can do only so much; it's wet on the seams and heavy now, not as heavy as his pant cuffs, but it matters little. His hair is dripping into his eyes, raindrops slicking his lips and clinging to his lashes and cheeks, and it's not too cold but it's uncomfortable, water running down his skin, his neck, under his collar, making his clothes stick to his skin. Mark wants to take off his shoes, peel all fabric away and submerge himself in a hot bath, till his skin is flushed and tender; he wonders what it would be like to have warm hands undoing the knots on his spine, drawing shapes on his chest underwater, drying his hair with patience. Mark runs a finger through his hair, tossing it back alongside that thought; he's so tired and weak against himself, he doubts he'll make it past undressing and wrapping himself in his blankets once he gets home, his lashes turning heavy and his thoughts drowsy in the lulling rain. His hand no longer stings, but his nose is starting to feel cold, a first sign of his warmth being stolen away.

The street is quiet, save for the rain splashing on the cobblestone and shifting through the leaves in gentle susurrous, his shoes a quiet thud on the ground. The sky is still dark, no sunrise today, too early, but he won't mind the couple of hours of sleep gained. It's lonely at this hour, the rain chasing the rest of the world into hiding, clouds obscuring the stars. The rain is a relief after so many days of blazing sun, but Mark thinks now that he might have liked to glimpse at the moon tonight, just as he arrives at his house, pushing the gate in darkness. It gives easily, fencing the rest of the world outside as he walks with tired steps to his door, fingertips closing around the cold slippery metal to open it.

At his gate, a small white bloom shivers its petals, pale in the night.

***

To be caught up in simple pleasures.

Mark walks on the side of the dirt road, just where the tall bunch of crowded stalks and green leaves quiver and brush by his calves and knees as he walks past. Deep welts of carriage and car wheels line the road after the rain a few nights ago, the mud now dry and slowly healing, every time another wheel sends dust to cover the tracks. Today this is not as busy a route as on other days, a rest day, a family one for most. There might be explorers on a picnic later, or visitors on their way to neighbouring towns, surely the weather will encourage them, but the early risers of labour mornings enjoy sleeping in on rest days, and so there is no one on the road at this hour; their cosy homes, their sunny city, they seem much more comfortable to them for now.

Sometimes, Mark escapes from the easy contentment of such mornings. Most of the times, he prefers staying at home as well, watering and weeding his small garden, with the scent of coffee and pastries wafting in the neighbourhood, opening the windows and the curtains for a few hours to let the sunlight in, napping with his books in the living room until the light gets too bright, having a glass of wine in the afternoon, taking a long bath, writing and reading again, before the night settles and he opens his bedroom window once more, stargazing, reminiscing, feeling the cool air on his skin, curtains dancing gracefully.

A gust of wind makes the grass shiver around the bend and tosses Mark's hair on his head. The cliffs are more popular in the summer, the view of the ocean soothing the heat, the breeze tasting of salt, the fruit hanging plentiful in the orchards. Mark likes the ripe spring on the cliffs too, however, he likes all seasons on them, and an early morning visit is worth the day sometimes.

Walking aimlessly in the sole direction the road provides, Mark notices a bicycle in the grass, parked someway down the hillside planes, on a path to the fields. It's unfamiliar this time, he soon realises with a bitter smile, unobtrusive and picturesque amongst the grass blades and the leafy twigs on the ground, wildflowers tied together in the basket. The wind climbs up, and it brings the scent of strawberries. Though he can't taste them, they smell sweet, peeking all over the eastern fields, inviting the braver ones to seek them at the source, skipping the market for the freshness of a spring morning in the fields, a short bike ride away from the city.

Mark walks further, and the breeze rushes in his ears, whispering, ticklish, playful. One step, then the next, no thoughts surrounding his mind hauntingly, instead spreading and getting carried away, diluted in the wind. At the foot of a noticeable climb on the road he stops, opting to stay safely hidden behind the hill instead of facing the whipping gusts of wind atop it. He walks off the road, treading through the grass slowly; it's still a few weeks till it will start turning thick and dry enough to weave in long braids and wreaths, or to tumble through like children love. The colourful, shy flowers that lay close to the ground a month ago have been replaced by seasonal taller ones, yellow, with simple and vibrant petals amidst the grass. They are everywhere, stalks growing one by one with single flowers, yet they are so many that they cover the near entirety of the field. The wind is not as forceful here, but they bow still to every blow, and still they spring back happily under the sun, unharmed.

He walks towards the ocean view and sits by a rock, just tall enough to lean on with a sigh once he is settled. Clouds roll in the distance, iodine and salt cutting through the warmth of the sunrays, bright and glistening over the water's surface. It looks so blue, and sometimes a little teal, and then it's marbled with white foam, like a precious stone that breathes and moves and coils. Ships are sailing, white sails on their masts billowed by the wind, carrying them away from the port in the cliffs. Mark closes his eyes, the ground cold, the sea harsh and tame, his skin turning warm in the sun, but the flower petals trembling and caressing his hands are cool.

The waves are quieter today, blown away by the wind's direction. They still swirl, currents underwater twisting like jade serpents deep in the roots of the cliffs and splashing water on the rocks above the surface. It's a gentle splash, barely audible, unlike the usual roar, and it only wets the baseline, moisture steaming off in the sun, algae and sea urchins and starfish drying off for a while in the nooks and crevices that normally don't see the light of day. The waters surge with uncharacteristic gentleness, tuck them in, and then withdraw, waiting patiently for the next surge of the currents. Mark wonders what it would be like to live as a sea urchin on the rocks. He'd watch the waves frothing, trapping bubbles and light overhead, and he'd be hanging on to his rock, getting showered by pale water that dissolves in the depths. He'd get a few days in the sun too, stretching his spikes instinctively to protect himself, basking contentedly in the warmth, awash with the brief relief of saltwater every now and then.

Mark opens his eyes to a blue sky. Is there anyone out there who'd care for a small sea urchin?

***

Gatherings at Johnny's mansion are not as loud or pretentious or drunk as the usual soirees of the upper class -at least, that's what Mark has heard, and what Johnny credibly confirms as the only one between the two of them to have attended such gatherings besides his own. It's still quite a lively affair, however, with music playing in the main hall, echoing in the near living rooms and dining rooms surrounding it, dainty glasses of colourful alcohol and tiny artful food bites meandering the rooms available for the evening, chandeliers alight, curtains fluttering on the sides of narrow windows wide open, spilling warmth and light and music outside. The garden is open to the public too for the night, candles in lanterns adorned with flowers providing a romantic half-light, stars glowing scattered in the sky.

Johnny is kind of a romantic.

It's not unusual for Johnny's house to host guests for various occasions, be it an inspiration of his own, or the offer of his main hall for charity events, occasionally. There is a vague excuse for celebrating the beginning of summer on this night, but Mark is more inclined to think Johnny was simply excited and wished to honour his blooming garden with eyes full of admiration while it lasts; it would have been a terrible waste to keep such a beautiful garden to oneself, Mark would agree. Personally, Mark likes the town festivities at the beginnings of autumn, when people wear wreaths in their hair and drink the finest fresh wine and sing and dance in roads and squares, children munching on grape must biscuits while watching the festivities from the windows, throwing paper figures at the stilt walkers parading the streets and laughing wildly. Spring is a more delicate season and summer is only beginning, but that is not to say the celebration doesn't have its charm; the endless flower festivals that last long into the night, the food stalls with their bright lights and delicious scents, the colourful fabrics and candy on display, the kites soaring in the parks till dusk, it's all happening somewhere beyond Johnny's gates, where the townspeople have been gathering since early in the morning to watch music and theatre shows performed on the street, eat and play and mingle, the weather of these days being the most gentle and welcoming of the year. Mark passed them by on his way here earlier in the evening, but he only got a glimpse of ribbons and people and laughter from the edge of the roads where carriages and cars are allowed, the city centre becoming available only to those who wish to walk in the festivities. Maybe he can visit there tomorrow; maybe he can even drag Renjun with him if he plays his cards right.

A server approaches him, silver tray carrying a crystal glass of ruby liquid for him, compliments of the host. Mark accepts it politely and the young man melts back into the crowd.

It's most usual for Mark to be invited to Johnny's gatherings, though he doesn't always attend, but he will admit that if there is one occasion to be social, this is as good as it could be. The crowd likes to assume too much to actually ask about him, and unlike the opera, Johnny is not always beside him, giving him a chance to blend in unobtrusively and enjoy his evening as solitary as one can possibly manage to be in a house full of people. Choosing a smaller living room suits him, watching people come and go in their finest clothes, listening to their conversations absently, sometimes joining them if it's interesting enough -but he fears there is too much talk of marriage and business, neither of which interests him, obviously. He's walked through the garden, he has survived unscathed the perilous main hall, fraught with invitations to dance, and he has wandered a couple of music, drawing, living rooms and a dining room buffet before settling here. There are those who admire the artworks, paintings and vases and sculpted furniture, those who talk business by the unlit fireplace, heavy hands holding their glasses but their eyes are sober and gleaming, and those who are merely resting on the seats, preoccupied with social talk and laughter, ladies with flowers in their ornate hairdos and thin gloves, gentlemen with shiny buttons and shoes and their best smile.

Standing in a corner by the open windows to escape the heat, Mark takes a sip of the drink Johnny arranged for him; it's not wine, maybe a fruit liqueur, tasting sweet and light, and a little honeyed. It's nice.

He's trying for the nth time to avoid a bold young lady's persistent gaze to discourage her, when Renjun appears. He's in a black shirt full of ruffles and an embroidered vest, his jacket missing, but it is late enough into the evening for the warmth of alcohol and dance and bodies for missing jackets to be common and not inappropriate anymore. Mark is, of course, still perfectly dressed and unruffled, in his white three piece suit that Johnny insisted he should wear, with his golden pocket watch and crimson scarf -he would have felt self conscious for such a bold choice if it weren't for an even more extravagant and fashionable crowd surrounding him. Renjun sashays to his side and takes a deep breath of fresh air, the breeze playing with the tufts of hair that always escape his ponytail like black ribbons of silk framing his pale face and dark eyes.

"Do you ever find humans odd?" he asks right at first, a small frown wrinkling his eyebrows as his gaze takes in the babbly crowd in the room, their bright colours, their mingling voices. Mark tilts his head, watching the younger closely; the question is a little unexpected, the lack of eye contact is a little suspicious.

"In what sense?" he attempts for more information, voice innocent, if a little perplexed, hoping his patience and openness won't discourage Renjun, or tip him off to change the subject. The younger seems quite set on his inquiry though, letting out a short, pensive exhale through the nose as he turns to Mark, the pinch between his eyebrows and the downward tug in the corner of his lips persisting. He looks a bit frustrated with whatever is troubling him, baffled, but his eyes have a naive roundness that doesn't make an appearance often on his sharp and composed features. Mark is not sure whether to be alarmed or not in this case, so he hides his thinned lips behind his glass, taking a sip.

"Are they ever strange enough to steal your breath?"

The liquid goes down the wrong way. Mark coughs, surprised, trying to be discreet about it while he's choking and his eyes well with tears of discomfort, the alcohol scrubbing his throat, all the way down to his chest. Renjun looks flustered, a hand placed readily on his shoulder with a whiff of vanilla, but Mark shakes his head behind the fist he's holding on his lips to reassure him he'll be fine.

What a question. It shouldn't come as such a surprise, considering Renjun is just as susceptible to emotions as the rest of them, and Mark would know a few things about inexplicable sensations and human aftereffects -he's been giving some thought to the matter lately, after his personal experience with a certain baker boy. It's an entirely different tune, however, when the boy you've helped raise drops such a question so unceremoniously. Of course it would be, innocent, naive and oblivious, because Renjun doesn't have much experience with humans, least of all humans he might have found attractive in some way. The worried look he's giving Mark is proof all the more of how guileless he is on the subject.

"Is it...bad?" he guesses tentatively, based on Mark's shocked reaction, his lips curving more into a concerned pout, voice a little wounded, his fingers twitching with uncertainty on Mark's shoulder. _Is something wrong with me_ , is what he's asking, turning to Mark who's older for some reference, some advice, trusting him with this unfamiliar and vulnerable worry.

Mark would never forgive himself if he let Renjun believe that even for a second.

"No, no!" He denies vehemently, shaking his head and looking into Renjun's eyes with wide ones of his own, trying to convey his sincerity. His coughing has significantly subsided by now, so he composes his expression and regains some order in his thoughts, taking a breath to make sure his voice will obey him. "You only surprised me with the question. It's just...rare" he tries to find the best word for it -and it sounds like the most approximate fit.

Some people feel attraction easily, some never do, and most of the rest are somewhere along that spectrum. When living a long life like their kin do, things change a little when attraction that goes beyond carnal need or survival is concerned; they all lose treasured ones at some point, and it all seems too painful and meaningless, a cruel game, and they all get hurt and, eventually, they start again. Renjun knows as well as any of them what wanting someone feels like, be it a sensual engagement or just a calling song of blood, but if he's cautious about this new feeling, it might be something more. It might be something harmless, a fleeting fancy or a platonic bond, but a romantic bond is rare, because they all guard themselves against it; it still sneaks under their skin in the presence of their loved one, and then it takes root in their heart while they're peacefully sleeping, and it becomes unavoidable and beautiful and a sweet torment that Mark can't explain properly in a room full of people watching them.

"Hm" is all that Renjun answers enigmatically, eyes riddled with thoughts, but he seems to understand at least that Mark is not turning him down, they are simply postponing this conversation for a more appropriate time and place. Mark has never shied away from difficult questions, has never judged Renjun for anything or made him feel uncomfortable with himself, and they both value this trust between them.

There is a short pause, Mark quietly observing Renjun and his shining eyes and quirked lips and swaying hair like-silken-ribbons, till someone joins them, already announced by the warm spice scent that blows into the room.

"What are you two talking about?" Johnny slides up beside Mark with a bright grin, his black suit styled to perfection, even the classy and elegant, calculated glimpse of a burgundy vest, and the golden details on his buttons that match his cufflinks. He's not as daringly dressed as most of his guests tonight, but then again, he's already the centre of attention, an effortless skill for him, an occasion to thrive. Mark eyes Renjun, expecting him to take the lead, and indeed, the younger squints his eyes into their usual sharpness and smirks coyly.

"Nothing at all" he chimes, entirely too lighthearted for the mischief in his eyes, clinking his flute glass against Johnny's champagne with a resounding note and turning around, walking away into the crowd with the poise of a slim, unhurried cat. Johnny huffs a laugh at the display, the teasing, and Mark smiles in his glass at Renjun's antics. Mark will admit he's somewhat relieved to see that Renjun is not as uncertain about the issue as he was when he approached him at first, and even feels comfortable enough to be cheeky about it. Subtle, not so much.

Of course Renjun will tell Johnny, in his own time. They have no such secrets, and Renjun always likes a second opinion, if just to see how similar or different it is to the first, even as a private thinking game to himself. For most opinions, Mark is actually glad he's not Renjun's only confidant, because he is aware of his shortcomings and there is reassurance in the prospect of Johnny -or even Taeyong- compensating for them. And if Renjun is sometimes full of games, it doesn't mean he values either one's opinion less.

"So, what was it..." Johnny muses to himself, because he knows Mark won't tell him yet; he can't outright blurt out Renjun's endgame, but since it is not explicitly a secret, there would be no issue to talk about it should Johnny guess it right, always respectfully and discreetly, always careful not to hurt their trust and balance with such things. Johnny runs a hand through his hair, changing their artful sculpting into another, the handsome angles of his face on full display. He leans on the wall next to Mark, holding his drink in one hand, the other in his pocket, and some may speak of a casual charm, of a compelling effortlessness, of beauty and class and salaciousness, but all Mark sees in the moment is Johnny; curious, caring, chivalrous Johnny, who accepts Renjun's unspoken challenge eagerly and gets to guessing and thinking right away. Not that he'd ever imply he has figured out the riddle, even if he does, unless Renjun tells him first.

His eyes sweep the room, but there are no clues, only Renjun's absence. Many in the room, however, recognise their host and offer generous smiles, even raising their glass; Johnny answers them with a courteous nod, and though they are regarding Mark with new interest as they're trying to make up their minds to approach, no one dares seize the chance so soon. Johnny contemplates silently and Mark lets him, feeling faintly entertained with watching this private game from the sidelines.

"Someone has caught our little Renjun's eye, haven't they?" Johnny guesses -quite accurately- soon enough, turning to Mark with a half accusing squint of his eyes, his seriousness underpinned with a comical hue. Mark smiles in an entirely betraying way of confirmation, even if he tries to overshadow it with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulder.

"I'm not sure, you came too soon" he says, sounding mirthful even to his own ears. It's not a lie, Renjun did not state his interests clearly, but both Mark and Johnny know, they do. Mark may not be as coy as Renjun, feigning innocence, but he makes a symbolic effort of keeping his eyes wandering aimlessly in the room, away from Johnny, and unfocused on the eyes that peer back with curious interest. Johnny's voice breaks into an incredulous laugh.

"Well I thought we'd never see the day" he says, more quietly, and even though Mark is not returning his gaze, doesn't need to, he can feel that Johnny is angled towards him, looking at him, talking to him, clearly not inclined to share his attention with anyone else in the room, which serves the purpose of discouraging anyone in their audience from approaching, temporarily. Some look a little a green.

Mark thinks of Johnny's words, and though he can't say he'd thought of Renjun's love life in such an uninspired fancy, it'd be hypocritical of him to deny the surprise he felt at the first hints of it just earlier. Maybe they both had underestimated Renjun's overall engagement with humans.

"What do you think would take for someone to pique Renjun's interest?" Johnny continues speculatively, a well-meaning smile in his voice. "A lady with lustrous hair and the scent of flowers? A handsome and mysterious man kissing his hand after a dance? A gentle voice? A quirky laugh?" he lists a few of the endless, equally credible and unlikely possibilities, and frankly Mark is also very interested in hearing more of it, but perhaps by Renjun himself, because he is not the best at guessing games. It is still privately entertaining to imagine of these things, however, and Mark finds himself helplessly smiling, hidden in his glass; what prospects, what temperament, what wit would Renjun discover to his tastes at such a soiree, he wonders. Johnny picks up again after a short pause. "The smile of a reclusive gentleman in white? Sipping elegantly on his liquor, so mysterious and silent" Johnny's voice drops at the latest addition, teasing, and Mark knows it's a tease meant for him.

"You overestimate my charm" he parries easily, turning to look at Johnny and tilting his head to the wall with a short-lived grin crinkling his eyes. Johnny is looking at him -has been looking at him, observing him- with knowing eyes, the curl of his lip mischievous and handsome as ever.

"Kingdoms have fallen for lesser men, Mark Lee" he counters, more lively, clinking his glass against the one Mark is holding, the sound faint in the murmur of the crowd that seems to have followed Johnny, filling out the room more than before. Johnny grins when Mark breathes out a quiet laugh, his stomach always clenching a little with the flattery, and they both take a sip of their drinks, sweet red and fizzy bitterness, all in good spirits.

A few more people walk into the room, as if to admire its period paneling and the artworks on the walls, stretching their legs after sitting down in a neighbouring living room or cooling down after a vigorous dance in the grand hall. Some of them bow their heads in greeting as they pass by, and Mark feels a distant dread that someone among them will finally pluck the courage to disturb them -certain ladies seem very eager to introduce themselves, and certain businessmen are patting their fat pockets, calculating, and Mark is not sure which of the two he would prefer to suffer. However, it seems Johnny can be as intimidating as he's oftentimes approachable in the eyes of the crowd, because drawn as they are to him, they seem to prefer keeping their distance at the moment, and Mark's fears prove futile.

"Are you not bored here?" is the next thing Johnny says, with a brief wrinkling of his nose, uncaring if those parading and posing themselves all around take offence. Had it been anyone else, they probably would have taken offence indeed, but Johnny is known not to be one to think poorly and ill of others, so they either don't take his words personal, or agree that, in comparison to the swirling, dizzying, happy quick steps of the adjoining dance hall, this living room is rather tame and now slightly overcrowded for no reason. Half of them, if not more, would follow Johnny in a heartbeat if he left, secretly stepping over their shoes for a dance or a walk in the moonlit garden with him, but Mark would probably stay. He's not bored. "I could introduce you to a few people if you'd like" Johnny offers anyway, and Mark is pretty sure he's not the only one who hears that, necks standing tall nearby.

"I'm on a socially restricted period, if you recall" he declines, with an eyebrow raised in challenge, but his voice is quiet enough to stay between the two of them. Johnny gets the hint and shrinks into the wall a little, more mindful of eavesdroppers now, although he doesn't even spare them a glance.

"You could still dance, talk, flirt" he nearly whispers, hand coming out of his pocket to gesture in the air non indicatively, almost brushing Mark's elbow, and Mark realises how close the crowd has pushed them to lean towards each other only then. Neither of them minds, surely not as much as those biting their tongues over what the two of them might be conspiring about. Mark looks at Johnny with a pensive tilt of his lips; dance, talk, flirt? Each sounds more dreadful than the last. Mark has strived to avoid them all evening, it's not his cup of tea, never was, and Johnny knows it, he's just being galant, making a recurring offer, just in case Mark might change his mind and decide to be more in tune with his surroundings, engaging in the festivities like the rest of them. But as of now, Mark would have to respectfully refuse. Johnny understands without need for words, when the silence stretches too long, and an easy smile of understanding curls on his lips. "Hmm, but something tells me it takes pretty brown eyes, an adorable smile and the scent of baked sugar to pique _your_ interest" he teases.

For the strange and completely involuntary flutter in Mark's stomach, Johnny earns himself a hidden pinch on the thigh that makes him laugh loudly, unrestrained, much to the delight of the spectating crowd.

***

It's a day before the last of the festivities held as a farewell to spring, and the street market is busy as ever. The colourful gause and frills decorating the stalls look much like flowers themselves from afar, painting the roadsides and fronts of old buildings as if they are in bloom too, as if the large flowers of delicate fabric are trying to unfurl in the narrow space of the wide streets, petals mingling in between the confines of buildings on either side and spilling on the side roads in all directions, fluttering just slightly in the wind. It reminds him of the flowers sprouting in the cracks of the pavement, a splash of unexpected colour that brings a smile to city-weary lips.

The scent of a giant bouquet greets the visitors, like perfume but more natural, light and airy, scattering in the breeze and changing as one walks by. Small kites are dancing high above the parks and reaching for the clouds in an incredibly clear blue sky. Soap bubbles float around the corner, iridescent and sparkly in the evening sun, and children chase and jump after them with giggles, some grab for them from their perch on their parents' shoulders. There is music, violins and other chords, flutes and cymbals, and those smaller notes of wood or metal. It's lively in one corner, people dancing in cheerful circles, and more sentimental at the next corner, couples walking by slowly. Nearly every wall has been covered in chalk drawings, flower gardens climbing up to windows, birds and butterflies and bees, and even bunnies and turtles and cats are caught in still motion. Childish hands and expert ones, and in an alcove small artists are exchanging supplies, eyes bright, faces and fingers smudged with colours.

It's mostly flower stalls and produce ones, fresh jam in small vases, herbal tea in dry heaps and honey, or salt and vinegar pickles of flavours that can't be cultivated and can be harvested in the wild only once a year instead. There are toy stalls, with all sorts of strange and pretty things, paper dragonflies and kites on display. Near each park's entrances, artists have set up shop and sketch a portrait for two coins, their meticulously painted works propped up behind them for anyone interested. There are even a couple of stalls with houseware, decorated cups and teapots, strange spoons, woven baskets and small vases, or ornate gemstone pins, neatly organized on sight. Every now and then the scent of food or sugar wafts by, street-side food stalls serving customers all day. Everyone looks happy in their own way, youthful and loud or shy and comfortable, seaslessly energetic or sweetly tired, enjoying a slow walk through the festival.

The floral scent is nearly intoxicating. Some blooms are sold in bundles per kind, some are sold composed in bouquets to last longer. The ground is damp under the stalls, and petals have fluttered to the ground, the stall keepers sweeping them up near constantly, arranging their display again and again, smiling at customers and making offers for the potted plants on the sides. There is a stall that's entirely red, yellow and orange, even to its draping, billowy gauses, and another further down the street that has only pale flowers, one with wildflowers alone, and one selling exclusively herbs in pots; Mark stops to admire the plush basil leaves and squigly rosemary, the nondescript lemon balm, the lavender and thyme, wondering at the latter two, their wild breed grown in neat pots. He's absently reading the tags in front of each herb in search of something he hasn't seen before, when two children zoom past him, chasing after a ball, and a lady of the upper class accidentally pokes his shoulder with her parasol. It's a clue that maybe he shouldn't be standing so idle. He smiles at the stall keeper and joins the flow of the crowd again with a tip of his hat.

Mark naturally gravitates towards the flowers; they are the most familiar and comforting. It is, however, always near flowers that he stands out the most, an imperceptible attraction drawing others in, like Renjun's distance tempts to touch him, like Johnny's mere presence ensnares others; it's about the scent, even though humans can't perceive it clearly and consciously. Mark's scent might manifest a bit more idiosyncratically, but he knows it is aided by the proximity to flowers, in a way; Taeyong likes to tease him that he'd make a stellarly successful florist in some lifetime. One flower is not enough of course, even a bouquet can be inconspicuous enough, but with such a large selection in vicinity, its effects are noticeable, even if most are subtle.

He has detected the attention he's gathering from stray glances, that transition to lingering looks that turn into open staring if they last a little too long. He has observed how some steps carry people closer to him than they intended, and how people seem to smile at him easily, already looking back if their gazes cross. He can't blend into the crowd as he usually prefers, but that comes as no surprise, only a deeply ingrained knowledge he has to make his resigned peace with for the evening; tomorrow people won't remember him, tomorrow people won't even notice him on the street.

Uncomfortable as it might be, Mark pretends not to notice, encouraging no one to approach him any further, letting humans walk in and out of his nature's trap oblivious, and the further they walk away, they forget and carry on with their lives.

He does want to buy flowers though. He wants a small one, maybe purple, to plant and place outside the windowsill of his library, its corner looking much too dreary for the sunny season, and a nice bouquet for his living room, as he usually has. He doesn't keep many plants at home, trying to keep a low profile in the neighbourhood -or else everyone would be drawn to him and his house. Which reminds him, he probably should buy another plant, maybe one of the small, colourful herbs, for the neighbours whose little boy broke a leg riding a bike a few days ago, to offer them with his well wishes. Another reason to dislike those steel, spindly wheels.

He is contemplating the arrangements on display at a stall that seems to his taste, but he finds it hard to choose among the elegant and colourful bouquets of fragrant flowers; the one of pure white blooms, the rustic one with the twigs woven in between, or the moody one with unusual and dark plum colours. The compositions are all undoubtedly beautiful, and the quality of the flowers seems excellent, but his instinctive choice and the aesthetically pleasing one are not in perfect agreement at the moment. He purses his lips, deep in thought, aware that the stall keepers are glancing at him out of the corner of their eye, but they are busy enough to keep their distance for now, allowing him some time to make his choice in peace.

"You should pick the second from the left"

For a moment, he thinks the familiar drift of the voice is only his imagination playing tricks, but with a short glance to the left he confirms it's the boy. _That_ boy. Donghyuck. Unmistakeably. The glance turns into a proper look, one Mark hopes doesn't look too distant and disinterested, as his most neutral expression is prone to be perceived -but he needs to keep his former composure, the nonplussed facade, to hide his surprise. Such a chance encounter shouldn't be surprising in the first place; they do live in the same city after all, and this is quite a frequented place by all city residents and visitors alike these days.

And yet, it still bears a vague sense of purpose when the flowing crowds come into perspective, of luck or one too many coincidences, or something greater that links all things and the universe, but Mark opts not to question it at present. So they meet again. It happens. Right.

"I should?" he says, sounding only a little like a question, more of a distraction. Donghyuck looks like he'd been on a leisure walk himself, curls shorter on his nape and temples than Mark remembers, but they still sweep over his brow, drawing the day's gentle sun and pouring it into his eyes, pooling on the surface of a warm cinnamon brown. He is in casual attire, a pair of dark brown pants and matching blazer, his shirt cream coloured and his tie a dark, ruby red; it might be the first time Mark has seen him wear one. Donghyuck's statuesque body and proud shoulders would look nice in anything, but for his playful spirit that doesn't do top buttons or covers them with frills, this outfit looks unnervingly more sauve. The wide smile he sends Mark is disarmingly easy.

"It suits you" he says just as easily, with the most subtle shrug of his shoulders, lashes tangling in the corners of his smiling eyes. It's hard to tell, he can't be certain, if the smile is genuine or teasing, but its effect is unfailingly the flop of Mark's stomach. Mark has to look away, he has to, before he loses his sanity -and he decides he might as well look at the bouquet in question.

It's more modest in comparison to its neighbours, a subtle presence of mellow colours and delicate petals, but the flowers have beautiful shapes and thoughts behind them. A customer less keen might not spare it a second glance, the more impressive bouquets calling for attention and seducing the senses, but somehow it has caught Donghyuck's eye, and Mark would agree that it's a beautiful bouquet on its own -perhaps more beautiful than the rest, even if it's more quiet and stands by unnoticed.

He can't help but wonder what Donghyuck meant exactly with his last words; it suits him in impression, meaning, or in a simply aesthetically pleasing way? He probably shouldn't be thinking about it. It gives him a curious, burning feeling all over, and he is certain that, in part, all the untoward thoughts he's been having lately are to blame. He ends up thinking about it. His good sense turns hypervigilant and confused by the sudden, peculiar urge to comply with Donghyuck's remotely flirty suggestion, fearing what it might mean in this regard -completely missing the point that people no longer care as much about such things, about choosing flowers for someone significant as if composing an intimate, unspoken message. Be that as it may, however, if Mark knows himself, he knows he has already made up his mind.

"If you say so" he hides his pleased smile by turning his back to the boy, reaching for his choice -their choice, or Donghyuck's. Mark is certain it will suit his living room splendidly. The stall keeper is very friendly, smiling at Mark and thanking him for his purchase, praising his good taste, upon which Mark quirks his lips to fight down the smile; his taste, their taste, Donghyuck's. He tips generously, the quality of the flowers in his hands truly impressive, the pale brown paper wrapped around them cold but mostly dry and glossy to the touch. The bouquet looks larger when he's holding it, heavy and big enough that he has to hold it at a bit of a distance from his suit, not to squish the flowers on himself.

Is it surprising or is it not that Donghyuck is still waiting beside him, Mark is not sure -he's not sure if the fluttering in his gut is pleasant or ominous either-, but perhaps he is thinking too much of it again, perhaps the boy is here waiting to buy flowers too. It would make sense, more than taking the time of day to divert his evening walk to greet Mark and help him make a choice in flowers.

"Elegance, serenity, sweet thoughts, grace" Donghyuck explains when Mark turns around, pointing at the flowers of the bouquet in Mark's hands carefully and without touching them, or breaching his personal space. He lists each flower's meaning accurately, with seemingly no effort, eyes bright as they jump from one bloom to another. Mark's eyes widen. "I would say so, yes" Donghyuck's lips curl into a self-satisfied smirk that dents one corner of his mouth more than the other, and the eyes that look up at Mark are shaded by heavy lashes, in a way that highlights the sun's blazing glint in them and should be illegal for the power it holds.

Mark has the epiphany that all those strange sensations overcoming him mean that he is more than a little flustered, and it is not exclusively from being the recipient of such a look. Apparently, Donghyuck knows the meaning of the flowers, a language and an art that Mark is familiar with from older times and has long since fallen out of fashion and into oblivion. That Donghyuck knows it is a rare chance. That he would use the excuse so smoothly to compliment Mark is impossible!

"You are full of surprises" Mark manages to say it without too much emotion showing through, a part of him consciously thankful that he cannot blush, or he would be red to the tips of his ears. He wouldn't mind at all, and, at the same time, it would be devastating if he could blush for Donghyuck. As it happens, his raised eyebrows probably look more of amusement than fluster, and his tone of voice rather indicated that as well, so he hopes his words sounded credibly enough as a general observation; in Mark's long experience, baker boys don't often have Donghyuck's finesse, his interests, his cultural knowledge, his manners of speaking and presenting himself. In a long line of simpler and nonetheless happy boys that come and go as Mark's acquaintances over the years, Donghyuck stands out upon closer inspection, too smart, too pretty, too compelling in a way Mark can't explain.

Mark has flowers in his hands, _he_ should be the inexplicably, inescapably alluring one to Donghyuck, but he feels the roles are quite in reverse; he feels caught, trapped and toyed with, when Donghyuck gives him a mischievous smirk, -helpless, hopeless-, but for all its hidden might and intensity, it may seem a socially acceptable one, or Donghyuck seems to think so at least, offering it daringly.

"And do you enjoy surprises?" he challenges without hesitation, and Mark nearly chokes on air. He can't possibly be teasing Mark right after complimenting him, how unabashed, shameless, dangerously flirtatious! And why should Mark feel his throat closing up and his knees weaken, it wouldn't be the first time he has to parry such intentions, an intuitive response after many long years of drawing lines to keep his safe distance. He almost defaults to those words, with the disinterested and cold tone of voice they always pair with, but he bites his tongue at the last moment; Donghyuck doesn't deserve such cruel flippancy, he shouldn't be discouraged and hurt while seeking to make friends, even if his ways are too playful for Mark to handle.

"It depends, I suppose" he dismisses, and though he instantly regrets the confusing, obscure answer he has given, it remains ultimately the only thing he could think of. He's never been very good at such things, always unsure of what to do or say. It notably doesn't inspire further conversation either, not if one is chivalrous like Donghyuck. The boy tilts his head curiously, looking at Mark as if he's trying to read a foreign script, drawing the sun in his gaze and pressing his pink lips in a pensive line. Mark hopes he is not silently reappraising Mark's formal and timid conduct on all of their past meetings, which Mark would describe as quite amicable, _but were they really_ ; the silence stretches long enough for Mark to turn flustered and anxious, worst of all, losing his grasp on words and topics he could pleasantly divert the attention to.

But then someone behind Donghyuck missteps, or perhaps grows tired of anyone in their way, and falls onto him with considerable force, throwing him off balance and, uncaringly or viciously, setting him up for a disgraceful fall in the middle of the street. In that split second, Mark remembers Donghyuck on the cliffs, agily jumping down before Mark could make one step closer, but, being so close to him now, Mark becomes painfully aware that Donghyuck is only the soft body of a young boy, a fearless boy, but without armour, and he's in danger of any plight or foe taking advantage of his human vulnerability. It's the least Mark can do to catch him by the elbow as Donhyuck nearly toples over, and he manages to keep him fairly upright; Donghyuck clutches onto Mark's arm with his other hand, eyes wide with horror at what was bound to happen, had Mark not intercepted it.

His hand is warm over the fabric of Mark's jacket. Mark wonders if his own hands feel too cold, uncomfortable. Donghyuck stares at the ground, then blinks up at Mark owlishly, his nose mere centimeters away from Mark's chin, and then quickly regains his wits, standing firmly on his own legs and standing tall. He quickly lets go of Mark's arm to fix his suit, muttering an apology with his eyes trained on the ground, but Mark doesn't respond, doesn't feel right to accept it, and instead holds onto the boy for a moment longer, just to make sure his balance is restored -which is obviously so, Mark is not fooling himself or his unexpected, but in character possessive, newfound affinity of holding onto the boy. He's not quite ready to let go of him yet, but he does.

"Shall we?" He suggests with a nod of the head, his hand still tingling with warmth, the phantom of Donghyuck's weight hanging on his arm, every space near him feeling so _empty_. It's a simple invitation to walk together, a short stroll maybe, or a tour of the festival; the suggestion is ambiguous enough to be safe. Safe for Donghyuck, who can refuse, or part ways with Mark a few steps further, should he decide to no longer bother with him. For Mark himself, the equivocacy of his proposition is not safe, there is a catch, the looming chance of a longer walk, one that will lead far deeper into his possessiveness, fondness. It will be pleasant, sweet, but nonetheless dangerous, like the cut of a sharp knife. He acknowledges this danger, he doesn't quite welcome it, but he allows it to walk with them, because it's the amiable thing to do, the nice thing, the kindness Donghyuck deserves, a peace offering after Mark's instinctively defensive indecision that might have made him question their tentative liaison.

"Oh" Donghyuck breathes out, lashes fluttering fast. It sounds confused. Mark can understand; he's probably still a little disoriented from his near-fall, and if that weren't enough, Mark is giving him very mixed and opposite signals. Strangely, the art of confusing others is necessary to Mark's kin, so he doesn't feel obligated to remorse or explanations for it. Donghyuck focuses on Mark's expectant eyes and soon gains confidence, managing to return his steady gaze. "Yes, of course" he accepts, straightening his jacket as he steps to Mark's side, facing the direction Mark nodded towards earlier, his face a stactured riddle, hard to tell what hides underneath his determination. Mark is still relieved to see it.

They walk. It's silent. Between them, that is, because the festive market around them is bustling with songs and laughter and conversation, lively as ever. Mark is still drawing nearby attention, but if Donghyuck notices the looks, he doesn't say anything about it, and Mark himself ignores it in favour of stealing glances at Donghyuck. Walking in silence doesn't feel uncomfortable, but it doesn't feel exactly natural either, not for Donghyuck's bubbly personality. Mark worries he's at fault for this.

"So, what-" "Is this yo-" they begin in unison, sharply turning to look at each other, exchanging an astonished, wide-eyed look at the suddenness, and then Donghyuck's full lips crack a nervous smile, and Mark looks away. He nods politely for Donghyuck to proceed first.

"Is this your first day attending the festival, Mr. Lee?" Comes a casual question, a start at conversation that feels more in character, not at all stilted or forced or resigned. Mark inwardly breathes a sigh of relief.

"Mark" he says, without thinking much of it at first, just a vague thought that _if he called me Mark, I wouldn't mind_. He _should_ mind, he's not supposed to be getting familiar with people, not more than it is unavoidable, but it slipped out so naturally that it has even surprised himself. His eyes widen a second too late, frantic fluster catching up, and he turns to look at Donghyuck's equally large eyes, impossibly more perplexed and stunned than before. It's hard to concentrate with such eyes looking at him, scrambling for an excuse. "If, if not then we'll be stuck in an odd circle of calling each other Mr. Lee" his weak defence hops out of his mouth automatically, and it might sound half-decent to the public, sensible, but to Mark's own ears it is a horrid excuse, a nonsensical embarrassment. He decidedly feels exponentially more thankful for his inability to blush.

"Ah…" Donghyuck mutters at long last, eyebrows raised in a sign of comprehension. Mark can barely remember what he said in the first place, and he looks away, turning his head to a group of children playing by throwing stones on chalk markings on the pavement, giggling and squealing, a legitimate distraction if he wished to pretend to fool anyone. He's not -fooling anyone, not anyone that matters at least. When did they stop walking? He's not sure, probably since he carelessly tossed his name at Donghyuck. It was quite shocking, it must have been.

He expects a non committal remark, or a polite one, a lighthearted one, even a courteous upholding of social pleasantries and a refusal in the name of the stiff norm for acquaintances. What he doesn't expect is to hear his name, called slowly and deliberately, a forbidden taste of it on Donghyuck's tongue.

"Mark, then" he says quietly, low, drizzled with honey and rolled out deeply and firmly like plush dough. Mark turns out of habit that's ingrained so deep into his person it might as well be an instinct, responding to his name, and part of his expression is disoriented at the unexpected turn of events, but Donghyuck is wearing an unrepentant smile, oddly smug, as if he enjoyed Mark's name on his lips, eyes full of mischief. Mark stares for a moment, clears his throat to recompose himself and wills his shaky knees to make a step forward.

"It is my first day visiting here, yes" he answers Donghyuck's harmless, long forgotten question, attempting to resume as casually as possible, although his rigid shoulders and forward-focused gaze might seem as forced as they feel. Two steps later, he realises he's alone. Half turning to the side, bafflement snaking into his expression with a frown, he finds Donghyuck resolutely standing rooted in his previous place, not a single step to the side or forward, but his eyes are boring into Mark.

"Donghyuck" he says his own name, an offering that glistens red as apples that tempt one bite. His features are set in a challenge, eyes dark and deep, lips not quite smiling but giving that impression, as if a smirk is threatening to form. Mark quirks a brow, confused. He knows the boy's name, he doesn't understand the declaration. He expects an explanation, a carifying comment. Instead, Donghyuck stares straight into Mark's eyes unwaveringly and repeats with purpose, "Donghyuck."

Oh. _Oh._ So that's what this is about. Mark orchestrates every line of his face into a smooth expression, swallowing down the knot in his throat and exerting great willpower in hopes not to stutter. He cannot allow himself to disappoint him at this point.

"Donghyuck" he echoes, not with the conviction the boy in question had, not with the confidence of a man rising to the challenge. It sounds quieter, like acceptance. It tastes like early mornings and comforting warmth at once. Mark knows he shouldn't let himself bask in the familiarity it brews between them, and yet...he's not always wise. Donghyuck looks pleased.

"It's a pity you didn't see the exotic flowers, in that case," he picks up the former topic of interest as if nothing ever happened, as if their conversation has not been hideously fragmented so far. Mark blinks, brows and lips pinched for a moment, trying to remember the issue at hand, and it returns to him just in time, as Donghyuck's strides cross the distance and he's beside Mark again, leading the way down the market and chattering, carefree. "They carried everything all the way from the port, but the flowers were so popular that the stall lasted only a couple of days, sold out completely; it was pretty while it lasted"

And it goes from there.

He talks about the displays he saw on his first day at the festival that turned too popular to admire from a distance on any other day, crowded as they still are, and about the chalk paintings down the corner that he personally likes best. He takes Mark there, he takes Mark further, guiding him through the festival with experienced steps, always with a point of reference he wants to show Mark or something that caught his eye; he knows where the largest flowers are, the best priced herbs, the swamped, busy food stalls which they avoid. Donghyuck is full of energy, well contained within the lines of his body and his graceful movement, pouring out in words and lighthearted jokes and obliviously kind remarks, in blinding smiles and never ending teasing, easy to laugh, hard to ignore or forget. Every mundane second beside him feels carved onto copper plates in Mark's memory, small things turning interesting and details becoming utterly captivating.

In his own way Donghyuck is captivating too, entrancing, and his little quirks during conversation would make anyone fond of him; the way he moves his hands down to his fingertips and when describing something, the way his lips quirk more on one side when he's talking through a smile, or the way his eyes linger on bright colours and his voice easily rises to a whine when he's playful, but it can flow so smooth and pleasant when he's speaking casually. He's beautiful, like wind chimes in the sun, like someone forged too nicely to be regular.

The sun begins to set, catching in his ringlets and washing them brass and golden, his skin glowing from within, his moles beguiling Mark when Donghyuck is looking elsewhere, away from Mark's eyes, at something else. Mark would have made an indecent fool out of himself, enraptured, had he not been as invested in listening to Donghyuck and following the conversation as actively as he is naturally inclined to -which is, unimpressively, not much, and Donghyuck decides to pick up on it much later in the evening, the sun faintly glowing and disappearing behind the floaty clouds on the horizon.

"You are a man of few words indeed, Mark" he observes without bite, hands laced behind his back and eyes roaming over the crowd with a lazy smile. Mark tears his eyes away from the bright kites flying high with their swirling tails over the nearest park, the ones Donghyuck had pointed at, and glances briefly at Donghyuck, shoulders shyly hunching.

"I'm afraid I am not the most talented conversationalist" he admits, looking down at his shoes and the slower steps they have been making for some time, an easy pace between him and Donghyuck that stretched into the evening, half a day, an entire flower market. His own flowers look fresh and timid in his hand, heavy now, after holding them for so long. He knows his silent and reserved ways are not always met with equal understanding, often misinterpreted as disinterest, judgement, standoffishness, even viciousness. He has learnt not to apologise, not to strain himself to be something he is not, but he is well aware of this particular shortcoming of his. Donghyuck doesn't seem offended by it, but for some reason, Mark thinks it would be devastating if, beyond his notice, his company with few words and measured expressions has been so unpleasant for Donghyuck this entire length of time.

"There are worse vices than cordial silence" Donghyuck says, a slight tease in his voice but it is not hurtful, and Mark looks at him to find him still smiling, that lazy curve of closed pink lips and squinty eyes in the sun. His expression is kind and honest, and he makes sure to look into Mark's eyes for a moment longer to make his point. Then his lips crack a little wider, and he lifts a hand to comb a lock of hair behind his ear, looking at the road ahead of them. "I talk too much" he offers his vice by himself, laced with accusation, self-reproach, or perhaps embarrassment, just on the very edges.

"Not too much" Mark counters comfortably, on instinct rather than thought, a sneaky smile tugging on his lips. Donghyuck appreciates the effort, choking out a laugh at Mark's teasing, bringing a fist to his lips. But, playfulness aside, Mark doesn't think Donghyuck talks too much, like he talks too little; Donghyuck is simply a force, a tidal wave, filling in all the spaces left empty, sometimes in words, sometimes in sentiment, sometimes surely in ways he doesn't even realise.

"Especially in the mornings, not too much" Donghyuck mocks, looking the other way but clearly entertained in his own sarcasm, and it's Mark's turn to huff a laugh, a small sound under his breath. Yes, their sleep-laden morning encounters are usually quieter, shorter, and that Donghyuck brings it up as a casual inside joke tickles Mark's chest in a not entirely unpleasant way. They lapse into a silence that still rings of their demure laughter, steps slowing down to a stop. Donghyuck clears his throat, looks up at Mark, his shoe heel digging in the ground. "Well, I…" he hesitates, gaze shifting to Mark's ear, then back to his lips and eyes again, "...have to go"

 _Oh?_ It sounds perplexing, unexpected, and it really shouldn't be. They are near Swan Park, near Donghyuck's shop, presumably his home too. They've spent the better part of the day together, and Mark did not expect to have company on his evening walk in the first place; he must have known they'd naturally part sooner or later, each to their own life. He shouldn't even have subconsciously accepted the time they spent together as something more meaningful than it was, it's not good for him to reach beyond the surface, it's dangerous. _Excuses._ Donghyuck has to go. _No._ Mark clenches his jaw and forces down the rebellion, the possessiveness gnawing on his ribs and stomping on his stomach, wailing how dare he let the boy go, how could he -and Mark knew this would happen, invited it still, and he will suffer through it because that is the only choice he can give himself. Keeping Donghyuck makes sense only as an acquaintance, and that will never be enough to appease him, but it _has to be_ enough.

"It was good to see you" Mark paints a tentative smile on his lips, a tiny quirk upwards. Predictably, his heart is chipping to say goodbye, as is the curse of his kin. "Thank you for your company, and the tour" he bows his head politely, tone serious, tipping his hat, the least he can offer as an earnest sentiment for the time Donghyuck has taken out of his life to entertain and brighten Mark's bleak existence.

"You're, uhm, welcome" Donghyuck stutters, and it occurs to Mark he might have been too formal again, flustering the poor boy. Donghyuck's hands are posed a little defensively -or appeasing- when Mark looks up, but he cracks a smile. "It was my pleasure" he reassures with a self-conscious giggle, lowering his hands and bringing them behind his back, taking a backwards step, then one more. Mark nods, more casually this time, secretly a bit mortified that he nearly made the same mistake twice -though Donghyuck seems to understand by now, thankfully, that casual manners and smalltalk do not come easy to Mark. Donghyuck's smile widens, steadfast, a nod in return, and then he walks away, blending into the crowd after two strides.

Mark sighs, and the tension bleeds out of him into the golden hour. Empty. There was no purpose before, neither is there one now. The flowers in his hand wink at him, a small reminder that they're patiently waiting for him to take them home. Home is far from here. But he can't stay standing by himself in the street, or the flow of the crowd will crash onto him with certain probability, so he takes a small step forward, then another, though he allows himself to obscure the destination for now, intending to merely wander till he finds his solitary steps' rhythm again.

"Mark!" A distant call makes him turn his head instantly, and somewhere not-too-close-by on the side, where the crowd is thin and idle, he spots an arm moving vigorously, a boy waving at him with the sun in his hair and bells in his voice, smile brilliant and wide and carefree. "I hope to see you again! Soon!"

***

Spring lingers. The weather should be resembling summer by now, but it still holds onto the capriciousness of spring. The days linger. The evenings turn progressively longer and bright, laughter and life extending well into the hours after dinner. Mark has spent most of his days at home, quietly reading, sleeping, briefly entertaining a visit from Renjun, who is still quite tight-lipped on the matters of his heart, dancing around his questions, not yet brave enough to ask them directly; it's fine, Mark assures him, they have time if anything.

The purple flowers at his library's window are still blooming, small and loosely clustered like stars on their stems. Mark likes them. He sometimes stares at them and forgets himself.

The morning is still too young to be bright; it's only an idea, a faint gray light that sighs into the room with every flutter of the window curtain. He has blown out the candle flame, seeking the solace of gentler, duller tones, replacing the saturated ones in high contrast with the darkness. His eyes hurt, he couldn't sleep very well. The fresh air helps, it makes breathing easier, washing out the sweetness of the sleepless dark and bringing inside undertones of nightflower vines, curling white and orange on the neighbouring fence. It's still so quiet outside, before the birds wake, before the cats play, before the silhouette of the morning sun begins to fill in; morning is still far, it feels far, but it will be inevitably arriving on its chariot.

Mark draws an invisible figure on the dark wood of his library desk with the pad of his index finger. Absently, he wonders if he could tug the shadows from where they are starting to blend and recede in the pale hint of light, and he tries, stroking the cold, hard surface, without result of course. He stretches out all his fingers, lays his palm flat on the wood and breathes. The cool morning air creeping into the room has him surrounded, kisses his skin on his cheeks, his ears, his nose, his fingertips and ankles. The soft linen of his chemise is loose and its drapes are cold, but the folds are warm with his body's heat, down his back, across his chest, slipping around his knees and thighs. It's nearly falling off one shoulder but he doesn't mind; there is nothing like careless, moored idleness to fit his summer, though the weather is far from it.

There are papers scattered in front of him, open envelopes and unfolded letters, the paper knife balancing on the low stack of books in the corner of the desk. His own correspondence materials are neatly in place, prim and patient; he doesn't feel like writing just yet, though he will most certainly write back soon.

He watches out the window and simply breathes, as the undefined shapes gain boundaries and lines and shadows, no more colour than comparative light and dark hues, but everything is familiar enough for him to recognise, the neighbouring buildings, the crossroad by his house, the fences, the trees and flowers in the gardens, the distant roofs of other neighbourhoods. A shiver runs down his spine and he closes his eyes for a moment, his unbeating heart sitting heavily on the floor, weighing him down. His blindly exploring fingers catch on paper, a corner, an edge, something that could cut if he's hasty. He finds the broken wax seal, still stuck to paper, and traces its raised, broken circle with his ring finger and his eyes, the dark colour already resembling red. It's so smooth and fragile.

One letter was expected, Taeyong's, one was an unexpected but not unwelcome addition, from Taeyong's youngest rescue, a boy called Jaemin. He sounds young, fairly young for their age too, and a little grumpy, like he was not very enthusiastic to formally introduce himself and greet his elder through writing, a work of Taeyong's persuasion for sure. _They don't do that anymore_ , Mark smiles, they don't greet their elders with such formalities; their old habits are a testament to their age, and the young ones may not understand, but there is no one born to resist Taeyong's will yet. Mark will make sure to write back words of encouragement -Jaemin will need them if he's staying with Taeyong. His friend's letter, on the contrary, is lighthearted as ever, most of it made of informal talk on paper than actual, formal writing. He talks of his city, of news, asks questions about Renjun and his recent interest in romance, though how Taeyong caught wind of it is beyond Mark; it might have been Johnny, or maybe Renjun gave himself away without meaning to do so yet. Taeyong seems to have too many questions to know anything substantial on the matter, but Mark is on the same boat, so he will have to postpone his report for a later, enlightened time.

His eyes follow the slant of Taeyong's handwriting, line after line, rereading some of it and browsing over other parts without registering a word. Mark has tossed all the papers on his desk and it looks a little messy, dizzying even, where one page falls on the other and the sentences blend in misaligned loops of letters. And yet, one passage stands out, the light of dawn now brave enough to illuminate it, even though it's still gray and cloudy.

" _I want to hear of your boy, that lost duckling you used to find on your doorstep -you know how fond I am of things lost. There was nothing of him in your last letter and I was quite surprised; I was so certain Johnny and Renjun mentioned that they met him recently, and you must have been present. What should I assume, Mark, that the boy is someone you don't think important enough to write of, or that he is too important to think of what to write? I must admit I'm a little jealous of our friends, I wish I could meet him, too. Mayhaps you could gift me an illustration? I'd be delighted, as you know I am always very curious about your interests. If obligations permit, I'm thinking of visiting you come autumn, and it would be a joy to visit the cliffs with you again…_ "

Mark sighs and melts further back into the chair, the cool morning air sneaking under his garment and making him shiver, the skin trembling, hypersensitive to the ghost touch of linen. He closes his eyes but the words don't go away. Not important enough or too important, indeed. It's hard to tell. Donghyuck is an acquaintance, a new and interesting one, but Mark's life has been full of acquaintances. Maybe it's different because Mark's life is supposed to be a secluded routine for a while, and Donghyuck is a bold disruption. Maybe it's because they happen to run into each other often, and it's the only social news Mark has to share. Maybe it is that Donghyuck is a singularity, a comet burning through the night sky, that makes him seem important.

Mark groans as he turns his cold cheeks away from the window, eyes falling onto the statue in one of his bookshelves, shaded and pallid, spines of different thickness and colour and ware surrounding it, the sparse, tiny crimson vines he keeps above the bookshelves hanging on the side. The sound growling out of his chest doesn't dislodge the knot he feels. It's been there for a few days now. It's easy to know. Donghyuck is a beautiful creature, a fragile and fierce and compelling one, the kind that don't appear in Mark's life often. Maybe it's different because Mark's heart has grown so used and comfortable at staying still, and Donghyuck makes it want to beat again. Maybe it's because once in a while, he gets bitten too. Maybe it's that Mark was wrong, and he doesn't want just the laughter and the touch and the sun, he's not just curious but greedy too, and he wants the fights and the closeness and to know what Donghyuck thinks, he wants _their_ rhythm more than his.

 _You can't_ , he wants to say, to convince himself. You can't want something so recklessly, so consumingly, so selfishly. _But of course you can_ , a part of him bites back, it's how you are made to want, possessively, longingly, instinctively. Mark is losing this battle. Like the dawn arriving inescapably, this feeling shrouds him too, gradually, softly, until you notice the first shadows and realise there's been light where you've been looking all along. It is neither woven by his fingers, nor is it something his fingers can undo.

But Donghyuck is oblivious and innocent, and Mark can keep his distance, this much he can do.

***

He should have known there is no hand that can change the weave of life, but before life twists his thread around again, Mark is leisurely strolling in the frontier neighbourhoods, where the cliffside road branches into the city like a river. It's technically a part of the city, the furthest extension of it towards the port and other sites nearby, the fields and the passages to towns closeby. Many consider the area as a separate piece, however, like the corner of a puzzle that's shaped and coloured differently. The main buildings here are large, with clean-cut corners and few, tiny windows, doors unreasonably wide as if to make up for it; storage units, in-between stations from the city to the port, boxes of cargo rubbing calluses in working hands. Such practical architecture makes for a bleak view, but this area has been inhabited for years by workers and their families, and the people have done wonders with the place, decorating every road with residences and shops and weekly markets in the wide streets.

Homes, cosy and lively, have sprouted in every nook and corner, usually with a narrow front, which leads to a yard and the humble doors of small apartments surrounding it; sometimes, there are flowers and carved stones and broken seashell ornaments hanging on the gates, sometimes the laundry puffs up with the wind and waves like tiny flags over the roofs. It's never quiet, children chasing around and laughing, and mothers calling after them and chatting at the doorways.

Down every three or four alleys, there's always an area dedicated to small businesses, places to buy necessities, to mend shoes, to bang the pans back into shape. The storefronts are just as narrow, crowded one beside the other, as if one by itself couldn't bear the loneliness. Even the taverns with their many patrons are peppered so closely on the sidewalk, tables taking up the street, when the work day ends and carriages don't need the space as much as the people clocking off their long shifts, spilling honest marryment into the town.

The weekly markets dare to take up space on the street in daylight only because they are essential; the small local shops can provide only so much, and there are wares and produce that they cannot regularly keep, so the town relies on the temporary stalls for certain needs. People come and go all day, even at night for those who work late, and the typically yellow lanterns guide those wandering into the stalls, maybe for a plate of warm stew across the street later, maybe join for a cup of wine, and then quietly trek the midnight road home.

Mark had no destination in mind when he left his house for an evening walk, just an urge to wander. It has brought him this far, but he doesn't mind; it's been a while since he was here last. Sometimes staying at home with his thoughts for a long while gets overwhelming, like a tangled yarn in a box that fingers idly push around, and eventually it's all a knot of threads, no sense or purpose to be grasped. He's had a lot of thoughts lately, an uncomfortable lot of them involving light brown curls and honey eyes and full lips smiling, an unreasonable fondness over star spots on skin. He has made his peace with that, but that doesn't mean he needs an escape any less, and that must have been the invisible pressure building up under his skin and overflowing with each step in the open air, flooding and rushing and leading to this estuary in a natural lull, after streaming mindless, frothing waters all the way here. He feels more at peace now, admittedly, more...clear.

The sky overhead has been downcast all day, gray clouds heavy and thick as a blanket, cold under their shield, blocking the sun. The light is hazy where it steeps through, shadows murky with the drizzle that started once evening fell, and has since evolved properly into rain. It's not detrimental to the busy market, umbrellas floating gracefully, laden with shopping bags, or, occasionally, fast shoes splashing by, trying to outrun the rain. The chill of the humidity in the air wraps around skin and breath, not as biting as the winter, yet neither gentle as the spring; it feels unfair, warmth stolen, and the void of its absence feels more hollow, jilted. Mark did have the good sense to foresee the rain and bring an umbrella with him, so he is in no hurry, meandering in the streets, peering into the vendors' dens curiously, idly, the drops leaking down the edges of the umbrella, the sound of footsteps and distant conversation mixing with the hum of rain. His skin is cold where the air touches him, tasting of relief and dew, but his gloved hands are warmer, a small sensation of comfort.

There's a bouquet of posies, forgotten on the low windowsill of a house that he passes by, now a bundle of flaring petals on thin stems, gently dripping with water on cold stone. They catch his eye, and he stops for a moment. Mark likes them. They are a story interrupted by the rain. Their delicate structure, small and tight or wide and billowy, their shaded cores that feel like satin on fingertips, the colours that belong in the wild of a flower field; even in the gray overtones they look innocently sweet, pink and white and mauve, and strands of curling stems bunched in frizzy leaves. There's always a story hidden in their midst, secrets they heard, warm hands that held them, and Mark's eyes linger on them, recalling different times, simpler times. The drizzle picks up. Its humming sounds more lonely, louder.

He feels a touch on his bent elbow, sudden as a stumble on the street but delicate as an arrow, so unexpected and yet certain, snaking around his arm with purpose -and before he knows it, there's a warm body pressed to his side, tied and anchored. He scarcely cares to hide his surprise as his head snaps around, the offended confusion of a cat lacing the polite protest that is already climbing up his throat out of habit, but just as reflexively his mind whirs and screeches to a halt, words dispersing.

"Donghyuck?" is the only note that chimes in his head, echoing like a bell in an empty hall, breaking the hum of rain. The word finds its way to his lips in a voice fraught with disbelief, and he would readily admit to the sentiment, although he didn't mean to express it so bluntly. It might even sound silly, because there is admittedly little chance the man beside him would be anyone else with such striking resemblance, his hair sticking wet to his skin on his forehead and temples and neck, like molten gold. The cold hands over Mark's clothes are his, the flushed cheeks, the warm cloak that flutters against Mark's body. But the encounter is so grossly, astronomically unexpected, that Mark could be convinced this is a figment of his own imagination if it so happens, the result of his thoughts over the past week contracting violently and abruptly after being stretched to their limits as far away as possible, like reverse concentric circles.

A pair of eyes turns sharply to Mark, wide and fierce and reprimanding, so unlike them. How odd of a fictional phantom to stray so far from past experience.

"Yes, it's me, but let's keep it between us, shall we?" Donghyuck, undoubtedly real and agitated, hisses through his teeth. Mark's chest throbs a little painfully, the thoughts in his head tossed around too much to pinpoint, yet somehow amplifying the sensation and constricting his throat, a choked sound coming out of his lips in response. Donghyuck's eyes are quick to leave him, ignore him, to stare at the street ahead instead, as soon as they've made their razor point. But the unease remains in Mark, like the ringing pulse on the skin after a slap. An unfair one. Or baffling one, at least. He can't think why he might have caused Donghyuck's ire. Amidst his confusion, he realises they're moving, walking. He doesn't feel inclined to protest. Donghyuck's grip on him is too tight, desperate, and his presence firm in the narrow space the umbrella shelters, despite his apparent, mysterious -and hopefully temporary- discontent with Mark. Mark fosters a passing thought that he couldn't bear Donghyuck being angry at him, if it's not resolved soon. But he honestly thought they had parted on good terms that time at the flower market.

"I don't understand" Mark admits at long last, managing a calm but very quiet voice, his mind failing to even grasp at possibilities anymore. His unreasonable fears aside, it wouldn't seem likely that Donghyuck is upset with him; it would be unreasonable for someone to take offence in the absence of any sort of contact, and, even if somehow that were the case, Donghyuck wouldn't have approached Mark out of the blue at first chance, and more or less demanded a walk with him. But, even if Mark, out of unfavourable fortune, happened to be standing by this whirlwind Donghyuck has been caught up in, many sides of the latter's questionable behaviour nag at Mark's mind unanswered.

What is Donghyuck doing here, so far away from his city routine and caught in the rain? What is he doing with Mark, grabbing him off the street so urgently? What has him so upset? What secret is to be kept with his name between them? Questions, so many, bounce back and forth in Mark's mind, too fast to discern, too many, blurring into a sense of helpless bafflement that makes his stomach churn. Donghyuck sighs, a resigned and frustrated sound.

"I know" he says more mildly this time, a different edge to his voice, almost pained. He glances at Mark's puzzled frown, then bites his pale lip when he looks away, then looks at Mark again in one breath, suddenly apologetic. "And this is probably very inappropriate and inconvenient, and I'm sorry, but can you please walk with me?" _I'd sprint and dive into the sea with you_ , Mark thinks without permission, a shocking, scandalous thought. For that, he keeps his lips sealed tightly, nodding in assent, long overdue and probably pointless, since they are already walking down the corner from the place where Donghyuck collided into him like a stray star. His response seems to ease some of the tension on Donghyuck's shoulders all the same, a breath in safety. Mark feels the shift of Donghyuck's chest against his arm, his thoughts flirting with the daydreams that keep him awake at night.

Mark resolutely, stubbornly, focuses on the present. This he recognizes, the quiet voice a murmur in the rain, the colour slowly returning to plush lips from being bitten, the flowy grace of a body no longer standing as jagged and rigid. The fright, the pleading tinge are clear, but in his short relief, Donghyuck feels more like the honey mouthed boy who always greets Mark with a crystal voice and a smile. His lashes flutter, dispelling the last of raindrops clinging to them, and Mark tears his infatuated gaze away, clutches the umbrella a bit more tightly.

They cross a few steps in silence, passersby hunched under the rain, uncaring to spare them a glance, and shopkeepers hardly noticing them, deeming them too hurriedly indifferent to be potential customers. Mark is not sure what Donghyuck has in mind, so he feels the need to point it out.

"Donghyuck, we're not _walking_ " he comments on their fast pace, as fast as two people can go without breaking into a run. The rain has already bespeckled his knees, shoes outrunning his umbrella, and although Mark doesn't mind, evident in his neutral tone of voice, he doubts they look inconspicuous enough in a crowd, for whatever Donghyuck hopes to achieve. It seems Donghyuck had hardly noticed in his fluster, his pace slowing down with breathtaking momentum as soon as Mark points it out.

"Oh, right, too fast, I'm dragging you around" he mumbles, mostly to himself, looking down at the ground and the muddy hem of his drenched cloak. He darts a quick glimpse at Mark, his face less distraught now, more lost, uttering a quiet "sorry."

There is no need for an apology.

They walk, slower after that, down a branch of the market where they've lit their lanterns early, as if to chase away the gloom. The silent questions keep whispering on their heels with each step, rain splashing onto them in their pass, to keep them down on the wet ground. The lanterns look like floating paper suns, the only bright colour on the gray street. Mark can't even pretend to browse the stalls, his focus woven around Donghyuck entirely, not so greatly conscious but instinctive. _He was scared_ , something in him growls, _do something_. But Mark does nothing for a while, giving Donghyuck space, not in the physical sense -it would be quite impossible while sharing an umbrella, legs nearly brushing with each step-, but he gives Donghyuck time instead, time to calm down and collect himself, time to feel safe. Yes, Mark wants him to feel safe. The thought curls up contently inside of him, the only touch of warmth besides Donghyuck's body heat, a paper lantern in Mark's chest.

He can feel it. He doesn't mean to, but he can feel the way Donghyuck's shoulders bleed out the nerves slowly, relaxing against Mark's. He can feel the fingers digging into his arm shift to a secure but not bruising hold above his elbow. He can sense the smooth pace that replaces the flighty stumbling under Donghyuck's shoes. He can almost hear the heartbeat winding down, the breath leaving Donghyuck's chest more steadily, a rhythmic press and shift against Mark's side. It's a fragile process, like a spooked animal trying to trust its surroundings, ready to flee, but less and less. Mark walks with him through it, makes no move to put distance between them as might have been proper. Propriety doesn't always mean what must be done. Mark breathes. Rather than Donghyuck wanting to be here, beside Mark, it'd be more accurate to say he doesn't want to be anywhere else. These moments shouldn't feel like a privilege, but they do.

"I can't help but feel concerned" he breaks the taciturn peace between them when it feels like Donghyuck is more stable, the silence weighing behind each of his steps and scratching in his thoughts, not his curiosity as much as his concern, the deeply protective kind of concern he has resigned to acknowledge when it comes to Donghyuck. He tries to sound conversational, tilting the umbrella more on Donghyuck's side, shielding him, the rain having long stained his sleeves and cloak, but it's a symbolic truce offering. "Is something the matter?" he prompts, trying to keep his own worst guesses at bay. He's not sure how deep into his instincts it might reach if Donghyuck was in actual danger, and he is not fond of fanning that furnace in public.

There is no immediate answer, no placating lie, not a deflection, not a refusal; there is not any kind of answer for a while, and when he risks a glance to the side, the man beside him just seals his lips and looks the other way. Had he been staring at Mark previously? What had he been looking for? Mark's curiosity is now piqued.

"Donghyuck?" he calls, showing a puzzled eyebrow, and the man seizes up whole beside him at the sound of his name, immediately turning his attention to Mark as well, eyes wide but without the sharp glint of fear now, the tips of his ears turning crimson.

"Shhh, why are you so fond of my name _now_ , you were so stingy with it the last time!" he whispers, and somehow manages to make it sound like a wounded yelp, the last flicker of fear and unease giving way to something more vulnerable, almost embarrassed. _Stingy_ , Mark thinks, is not the word; restrained sounds more accurate. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, however, Donghyuck seems to regret them, jaw falling slack and lips gaping, endearingly curled eyebrows smoothing out. "I mean…" he mutters, never finishing that thought, reconsidering. His gaze focuses over Mark's ear, mortification clear in his eyes and the tight slope of his lips. How horrible that there is nowhere to hide in the tight space between them, in the small protective alcove against the sheets of rain.

Mark was not offended; if anything, he enjoys the rare chance of Donghyuck's less animated, impulsive, spontaneous sides. Even if Donghyuck doesn't feel the same and thinks that he needs to stand on a ladder of politeness and civility to reach Mark, who currently acts for the world as a vaguely employed, financially affluent young gentleman, the truth is Mark has lived lifetimes humbly too, he was in fact born as low as was common. Donghyuck's human nature does not offend him. He delights in it.

"There were some unpleasant people following me, it's best if they quietly lose me in the crowd" Donghyuck settles to amend after a while of thought, gaze turning downcast once more, interested in the stones underfoot. It's quiet enough not to be heard past the border of their umbrella, but his withering voice is quite foreboding. Mark, helplessly engrossed in Donghyuck at any given moment, makes an effort to think through the explanation of the circumstance leading up to their current situation, and his lazily bewitched thoughts whip around with a cracking sound when it sinks in.

"Are you in trouble with them?" he queries, as mildly and discreetly as he can, carefully keeping his voice under control to reflect only thoughtfulness and tenderness. It brings a pained expression on his face, struggling to fight down the growling beast of aimless anger clawing at his insides, wrangling his throat. Donghyuck, deep in thought and thankfully oblivious to Mark's torment, pouts petulantly at the paved road and takes a step closer to him, so naturally, as if the last sliver of space between them doesn't need to exist.

"They are trouble themselves" he says, his frown carving deeper, troubled and displeased, perhaps a memory or a thought triggering it. His voice remains quiet, a private conversation in the rain. "They are the sort of people who offer...services in poor neighbourhoods, in exchange for money and certain sorts of favours" he catches himself again and mellows his wording with a glance at Mark just before he blurts it out, trying to find appropriate vocabulary, self-consciously afraid of saying too much, crossing a self-imposed line. For all he knows, Mark has never had to even consider the existence of such lowly people, except when reading the occasional crime articles in the papers. But Mark knows the sort of people Donghyuck means, no matter how nicely he tries to describe them, and it's not from reading about them in the papers. He'd also never judge Donghyuck -or anyone- for their social and financial status and their unavoidable options, so he gives no reaction to Donghyuck's words, patiently expecting more. After a moment of consideration, Donghyuck swallows, seeming to decide it wouldn't hurt to be a smidge more forthcoming, faced with such an understanding audience.

"They had approached my father years ago -but we didn't get involved with them!" he clarifies quickly, flailing his free hand and promptly flinching away from the rain, looking at Mark with wide and earnest eyes; Mark nods encouragingly, and Donghyuck deflates back to normal, self-spooked, raised hackles of fur smoothing down like a gently petted animal. Even if they had gotten involved, even if they were still involved, Mark would never be entitled enough to have an opinion. "We were lucky to move away and open the bakery soon after, they didn't dare bother us since, but they tend to be...intimidating; they have expressed how they feel slighted and scorned, and they have a bloody good memory" he growls a little around the last words, a sound that flickers in Mark's chest with a strange heat. "They ran into me before the rain and started following me, because they were bored and like to amuse themselves with terrorising people, but I have no intention of becoming their punching bag for the evening" he recounts, and the flicker turns into a blaze inside Mark's chest, anger flaring again, thinking of Donghyuck in peril.

Mark is now certain that his instincts are very responsive.

They stop walking, on the side of the road. Donghyuck gives him a look part timid and part questioning. Mark doesn't realise that he's staring at Donghyuck, that like this, so close, Donghyuck can probably see the heat in Mark's eyes, but neither looks away, standing still near the entrance of a stall, the light of its paper sun too weak to reach them under the umbrella. Donghyuck's lips are parted and glossy, his nose tip pink from the cold, his hair still tangled vines with golden strands and curling edges. Mark can feel the pinch in his brow, the stern line of his lips, but he doesn't have a mind to hide his serious expression, and Donghyuck only stares back, trying to match his thoughts. They are wordless and run too deep to ignore, thrumming between them, all of them, their skin, their hands, their eyes, their lips. It's a complicated silence, but neither shys away from it. The rain keeps ricocheting off the umbrella in fast tempo, the rest of the world quiet.

Until a bike splashes by on wheezing, wet wheels, and Donghyuck blinks, his expression closing off, suddenly contrite, as if he is still unsure how much he can say, how open he's allowed to be. Mark wishes Donghyuck was a map for him, unraveling whole.

"I'm rambling. My...apologies" he tries to say more formally, bowing his head a little, ears pink, but most alarmingly his hold loosens, letting go, and Mark doesn't want him to let go.

"No, I'm...sorry this happened" he is quick to say, uncertain for himself if he means Donghyuck's earlier predicament or the silence they shared just now. His free hand comes over Donghyuck's, to hold it in place, warm on Mark's arm, a sign of desperation masked as comfort. Donghyuck looks at him as if he's asking a question again, one of those that only dare leave one's lips as whispers, but he doesn't pull his hand away from Mark's gloved touch. In the same silence, Mark is afraid of answering that unspoken query, for both their sakes, for now appeased that Donghyuck is still near him. So he takes a step forward, brings Donghyuck along, and the latter follows easily; regretfully, Mark has to drop his hand from his hold on Donghyuck, letting it fall to his side, clenching his fist. He chooses another honest admission for a change of subject, as casually as he can, considering his neck feels warm though he cannot blush. "I'm glad you're safe, thank you for telling me. So...where are we heading?"

"Away" the reply comes to Donghyuck's lips fast, more quiet, with a hint of nervousness echoing urgency; it's a punch to Mark's chest, a reflection of how scared Donghyuck was, rushing to escape the men following him ominously. A second after the word leaves his lips, Donghyuck halts his step, planting his feet in the ground without warning -thankfully, their pace was still slow enough for Mark not to stumble as Donghyuck's hand, anchored on his arm with a firm grip, pulls him backward on the next step. He turns to the man beside him, perplexed, the cold air rushing to invade the space between their disjointed bodies. Unexpectedly, Donghyuck looks at him petrified, eyes wide, skin pale and cold as a fish, not the slightest concern about the rain splashing on him and trickling down his collar when the umbrella partially exposes him to the sky. He fixes Mark with a wild glare. " _Are_ we heading away?" he asks under his breath, a tremble running down his spine, almost fearing the answer.

"Yes" Mark is quick to assure him, stepping closer and shifting the umbrella to shield him better from the rain, "yes, we're already far enough. It's safe"

For a moment longer, Donghyuck remains frozen, staring at Mark as if he didn't hear but rather read the answer on his lips. Then he glances left and right at the people passing, buttoned up and shaded under their cloaks and hats and umbrellas, searching for anything suspicious in their gait. Mark tucks his elbow to his ribs, consequently drawing Donghyuck as close as he'd dare, and it is with a covert, forbidden pleasure that he feels Donghyuck readily melting against him, a sigh of relief escaping his lips, lashes drooping above his waxy cheeks.

And he looks so tired.

"Maybe you should go home and rest for the evening" Mark suggests, unhurried but nonetheless concerned. It's been a long day for Donghyuck, he is drenched and cold and frightened, so it might be for the best if he seeks the safety and comfort of his bed covers soon. Mark would feel more at ease then, too. Donghyuck's eyebrows quirk at that suggestion, and he lifts his gaze to peer at the crossroad ahead of them, then right and left on the street, coming up a little blank.

"I have no idea how to do that" he whispers, the unforgiving honesty tinged with poorly withheld helplessness. His face is very close to Mark, looking up at him with a complicated expression, his hold growing tighter on his arm, clinging. "They, they were following me and, I panicked, I lost track, I'm-" he stutters, words pouring out progressively faster and thinner, his eyes turning away to scan the street again, to make sure. "I don't know how I brought us here, I don't know where we are" he confesses, panic and remorse mixing in his voice.

Mark is not exactly surprised that Donghyuck is lost; who could expect him to remember the way in the mayhem of being chased, and he has a bad sense of direction to begin with. He does feel sorry for the man, however, who had barely managed to breathe before the next wave of uncertainty and misfortune crashed onto him this evening. Donghyuck is struggling to stay afloat, his hold on Mark tight, as if he's a star of hope in a tempestuous sea.

"It's okay" Mark tries to sound reassuring, giving Donghyuck a sympathetic expression that could be a tight-lipped smile. Donghyuck's eyes are subtly red, but his breath comes a little easier when he looks at Mark. "I can walk us back to my house and you know the way from there, don't you?" He proposes, and it's only the middle ground between lost and found. Mark has been walking this city for a long time, he knows all the roads and looks and sounds of it, but it would be presumptuous -and dangerously self-indulgent- offering to lead Donghyuck all the way back to his family, so perhaps it would be prudent to lead him in a familiar direction and let him find his way from there. Donghyuck blinks at him.

"Yeah" he mumbles, and Mark can tell he is thinking too much, he can almost see the thoughts swimming in his eyes. Clearing his throat, Donghyuck stands a little straighter, removing his weight from Mark but staying close enough to touch still, collecting himself and saying in proper manner "yes, thank you"

They cross the street, Mark leading the way, wincing a little when he notices the hem of Donghyuck's cloak dragging in the rivulets of rainwater by the pavement. Donghyuck doesn't seem to care at all. Mark tries to pick the better paved streets from then on. The lights of the market gradually petter out to the city streetlights, lit up earlier than nightfall in some areas, to balance the glum of rain. There is still plenty of light to see, but Mark tries not to look in Donghyuck's direction unnecessarily in their tiny given space; that way it doesn't feel overcrowded, not even for a moment. Besides, he knows Donghyuck will be a distracting sight, beautiful and wrecked and intimate, and he doesn't mean to overstep, Donghyuck's vulnerability being countered by an unspoken, inherent pride, and it's a fragile equilibrium. Mark keeps his eyes on the road, dutifully guiding Donghyuck around puddles in worn pavements and under canopies of dripping wisteria, arching overhead in narrow alleys, turning left at the iron fence of a park, left again and across, where the tall marble walls of the Hall of Medicine and its century old plane tree gleam in the rain.

Unlike the last time they went on a walk together, the people passing by don't notice and stare, indifferent in their carriages or too busy fencing the rain with their umbrellas. The distance between the two of them is nearly nonexistent, certainly not what decorum dictates, but not exactly scandalously offending it either, given the circumstances. Donghyuck is uncharacteristically quiet. He doesn't seem troubled or uncomfortable, but he doesn't pick up a conversation in favour of silence, so prolonged, that Mark is tempted, once or twice, to check if he is sleepwalking beside him. He makes an unskillful attempt, halfway to their destination, by commenting on the weather, but he receives merely a distracted hum in response, then it's all silent again. Deeming that Donghyuck must have a lot on his mind, or is feeling self-conscious perhaps, Mark doesn't push further. They don't need to talk. Donghyuck is following him to safety and their pace is as comfortable as the rain allows.

One final turn and Mark's house comes into view, gray stones and ivy, and an array of white flowers behind the fence. He recalls Donghyuck riding his bicycle in the opposite direction they are walking now, and he wonders if their surroundings do not yet seem familiar to him because he's looking at the street from a different angle, if there is any other reason he's so quiet and absentminded. It feels like he's carrying a weirdly obedient creature, like Mark could walk him across the city and Donghyuck still wouldn't protest or care to notice at all, content with simply following.

"Donghyuck" Mark calls for his attention as he slows to a stop right in front of his gate. Donghyuck turns to him slowly, as if waking from a daydream, a little disoriented by anything foreign, anything beyond Mark's constant presence beside him. "We're here" Mark informs him patiently, looking straight into his glassy eyes, watching in faint amusement as Donghyuck blinks at him like a cat, once, twice, marginally more alert each time. His face regains signs of life, eyes focusing on the house behind Mark and flashing with recognition after a swift moment.

"Yes, I…" he murmurs, dropping his hold on Mark's arm; Mark feels unprepared for the cold touch of emptiness that replaces it. Donghyuck's gaze shifts between Mark and the house for a few times, returning to his senses and taking half a step away, his shoulder grasped by the cold clutches of rain instantly, before Mark can do anything about it. He feels oddly guilty. "I will get going then. Thank you so much, and I'm, I'm very sorry, for imposing and, my behaviour has been unbecoming" Donghyuck starts babbling, a dusting of colour rising to his cheeks; he seems caught between bowing his head -but they are standing too close to each other-, shaking Mark's hand -but Mark is holding the umbrella numbly by now-, definitely not looking into Mark's eyes -but there is nothing else to focus on over his ear and on his collar and on the buttons of his coat. It's a bashful discomfort very familiar to Mark, one he usually experiences under his skin on many an occasion, but on Donghyuck he finds it is particularly endearing.

"You were upset" Mark puts him out of his misery, smiling a little. There is not much light left in the day anymore, but he is sure Donghyuck's eyes gleam in the half darkness when he finally looks back. Mark's expression melts to something warmer. "It's not an imposition to help a friend" he says, keeping everything else in. _Not if it's you, anything for you._ Donghyuck looks a little dazed, distracted again, swallowing once, taking a breath and opening his lips but making no sound, gaping like this a few times. Mark waits. He doesn't want to leave first, that's the last thing he'd want, even though the door to his house is right there.

"I should…" Donghyuck gestures vaguely at the street ahead, looking at Mark's lips as if waiting to read them, then at his eyes. He might have had half a thought to smile but his lips only quirk in the end, stilted words stuck behind them. He takes a step further away, the warmth his body radiates retreating and the loud hiss of rain rushing in.

"Wait."

Mark says it before he can think of it, acts before he can pause to wonder if it's at all indecent and what his neighbours might think. He has a hand wrapped around Donghyuck's wrist securely, sleeve cuffs soaking fast, cold rain sliding on his skin between his gloves and coat. Donghyuck doesn't pull away, doesn't move at all, doesn't mind the harsh rain kissing his flushed cheeks and ears and down his neck. He stares at Mark with wide eyes, blinking away the rain, but Mark swears there is not only surprise in them, but also expectation. He's not projecting, it's really there.

"It's a long walk home and it's pouring" Mark attempts to explain himself, almost breathless, his lungs suddenly filling with too much air. Donghyuck licks the water off his lips, lashes fluttering at the roll of thunder echoing over the city. There was no thunder before. _It could be dangerous to send him off in a storm like this_ , Mark reasons with himself. It's almost dark, most of the streets are deserted and an umbrella won't be enough for the journey -even Mark can feel his clothes damp and heavy, and he has barely touched the rain all evening. "Would you like to come inside, to wait out the worst of the rain? Or we could get you dry and call a carriage at the main road. Will your family worry if you delay?" He proposes, trying to find an acceptable solution, not to offend Donghyuck, or push him to accept out of politeness, or seem dishonest in his intentions. He even makes a step closer to shield Donghyuck from the downpour momentarily, the constant blinking looking quite uncomfortable, but he makes sure to keep himself at a polite distance.

Of all things, Donghyuck laughs, a little breathlessly, ruffling his wet hair at the side of his head with one hand, and Mark swallows dryly at the sight. He's not sure what to make of it.

"I'm already very late but, they're not home for the weekend" Donghyuck answers lightheartedly, more like himself than he's been all day. He grins like a cheeky child that's been caught outside after curfew, and Mark is tempted to indulge at the sight, but it's out of place, his worries are still pressing, and Donghyuck is rapidly getting soaked. He tilts his head towards the house in an indicative manner, and that seems to remind Donghyuck the actual question, his smiling expression colouring a little flustered, his free hand gesturing nervously between the two of them, wrist flexing in Mark's hold. "Still, I don't mean to intrude after everything, your offer is most kind, but I'm afraid I'll have to-"

A loud clap of thunder interrupts him, and Donghyuck turns into a speechless and rigid statue in Mark's hold, staring at him, words presently misplaced in his astounded stupor. Mark glances at the sky beyond their umbrella, almost black as coal and angry, unrelenting rain splitting with a strike of near-blinding lighting, washing everything pale with fright. Donghyuck's hands start trembling again, be it from the cold or the shock, and it's clear to them both there is no longer any chance of him walking home alone amidst the calamity. Mark adjusts his fingers in the most gentle hold he could ever give, and tugs on Donghyuck's wrist pleadingly.

"Please, come in. I'll feel better if you do"

***

It's still dark.

"Mark?"

It's still dark and quiet as a whisper. His body feels heavy, as if weighing lead and molten silver, from his ankles to his knees, to his belly, shoulders and neck. His wrists feel loose, fingertips resting on his chest, on something else, but it's hard to concentrate on it, figure the texture. It follows his breath, slowly rising and falling. There is something warm, on his shoulder, probably. Warmer than him through the thin fabric of his undershirt, the sensation circling him whole like a taste of mulled wine. There's a soft rustle on him. It smells like...caramel.

"Mark"

The darkness breaks, he turns more aware. There is a dull ache in his spine, from lying unmoving for too long on the chaise longue, a sore grip that has yet to reach its full potential, offering only a small twinge on his neck when he turns his head, his back stretching with a yawn, stifled against the back of his hand. The blanket is warm under his fingers, and something warmer, more solid, is holding onto his shoulder. He coaxes his eyes open, a little hesitant, and it's still...dark.

For a moment, he is disoriented. He recognizes his living room, the drawn curtains, the polished furniture, the velvet and the pale flowers, and the short, misaligned pile of books and papers on the secrétaire. There is enough candlelight to see, in small glass bowls and lanterns, the safe candles that may be left to burn overnight, the rest half-melted and blown out, long cold; Mark spends the night awake often enough to know how to see in the dark, how to accommodate his eyesight more comfortably, where candles cast their light best in his house. Tonight, the amber haze of candlelight is just enough for outlines, vague colours, spilling on nearby surfaces and nooks, reaching around the corners. Mark can see the book he's been reading lately, still left open on the drawing table, the last thing he remembers before falling asleep.

And then there is Donghyuck.

"How are you" Mark asks, concerned and caring, but in his drowsy voice it doesn't sound like a question. He hastily tries to sit up, blanket falling off his shoulders, a barely noticeable temperature difference brushing on his skin, where his shirt has loosely exposed his collarbones. Donghyuck, he, he's staying the night, in Mark's bedroom, because of the rain. Mark glances at the dark windows, pitch black, and while his lips ask of their own accord "how's the...storm" his mind catches up to the rest.

It's the middle of the night. The storm seems to have soothed itself, becoming a steady whisper of rain falling against the stones and gardens of the neighbourhood, persistent but quieter. Mark had not been expecting the vicious skies of evening to last till daybreak, not in this season, but he had been expecting to sleep.

When it was clear that the long walk home was only getting more and more dangerous a plan for Donghyuck, the storm still raging and the night falling fast, Mark gladly offered him a dry change of his softest clothes and the key to his bedroom -which made Donghyuck laugh, a beautiful sound, but Mark is not sure why. He has thought about it since, and he has come to the conclusion that people might not do that anymore, maybe gentlemen no longer give the key to their guests as a sign of goodwill, so they can lock the door if they wish, to protect their sleeping virtue. But Donghyuck accepted Mark's hospitality nonetheless, thanking him profusely, drinking a warm cup of wine and reading with him, fascinated with Mark's library, before he went to bed. Mark stayed up reading a little while longer, his eyes straying to the orange peels every so often, the only food he could offer Donghyuck because it was the only thing he happened to keep in the house, bought last week on a whim, because he thought he could slice it into his wine sometime.

But, it's the middle of the night. There are still silent streams running down the sides of the streets outside, rivulets lining the windows, the books are sleeping where they left them, and Donghyuck's washed clothes are still hung to dry in one of the bathrooms. Mark doesn't understand why Donghyuck has had any need to come downstairs to wake him, instead of being comfortably bundled in bed. Wearing the silken chemise that reaches down to his knees and holding a candle that wraps him in a warm, golden glow. Mark almost loses his breath at the feeling of intimacy spreading in his chest when Donghyuck's plush lips curl in a small smile, eyes still sleepy, his hand on Mark's shoulder squeezing once before slowly letting go.

"It looks manageable" he answers, setting the candle aside on the nearest table surface, and Mark frowns -about the rain, yes. Manageable? In the _middle_ of the night? Donghyuck doesn't seem to even notice Mark's confusion -or suspicion, concern?-, even though he's looking right at him and Mark has no reason to hide it from his expression. He doesn't seem to notice the strangeness of his own words either, how he's implying it's a good idea to leave in the night, while it's still raining quite substantially and he's barely awake on his feet, still wearing his sleeping gown. He continues to murmur, almost to himself. "I might have to borrow your umbrella, but I can make it to the main road and-"

One innocent attempt at a step backwards, and suddenly Donghyuck's knees give out.

"Hyuck!"

Mark is quick to catch him before he collapses, springing out of his seat and wrapping both arms around Donghyuck's waist to keep him upright. His heart would be drumming in his ears from the fright if it could beat again so loud, but Donghyuck's heart thumping against his chest is pretty similar to what he remembers. His fingers and palms and forearms are pressed on warm silk and soft flesh, his chest is flush against Donghyuck's, his jaw bumps against Donghyuck's temple momentarily, but there is no response to any of it, except for Donghyuck mindlessly nuzzling Mark's shirt till he finds skin, and then hooking his chin over the slope of Mark's neck and shoulder; Mark can feel heat, scorching on his skin, and a pulse. It's a little distracting -more so than the rest-, as if that specific point of contact is making Mark's entire body thrum instinctively, curling in and waiting for more, but he grits his teeth resolutely and tries to restore Donghyuck's balance, pushing against him more, to give it back. It is in vain; Donghyuck is not just sleepy, he's dead weight in Mark's hold, not a single muscle under his control.

"I'm mph-fine" he slurs in Mark's ear, hot lips and hot breath, which Mark ignores, not without painful effort that tests his limits. He grunts noncommittally, since there is no point arguing on the matter any further, because Donghyuck is quite obviously _not_ fine. Mark suspected as much as soon as his lethargic mind allowed, but now he is certain and deeply concerned, manoeuvring Donghyuck's limp body to settle him down in Mark's previous seat, lying on the chaise longue. He holds the back of Donghyuck's head as he sets his golden curls down on the pillow, wraps an arm under his warm knees to bring his legs up and swiftly covers him with the blanket. "Really, 'm fine, just a little blood rush" Donghyuck insists, frowning at first, then smiling, giggling at the end, incoherent and unfocused, eyes remaining closed through every expression.

He's completely out of tune, but at least he's not resisting, surrendered in unspoken trust at Mark's mercy. With a sigh, Mark loses no time in taking his wrist in one hand, gently combing away the curls on Donghyuck's forehead with the other, touch light and precise with practiced ease. It's been long since he last cared for a human like this, but he remembers. He frowns in concentration, starts counting under his breath. It's quiet for the first twenty six counts.

"Mnn- Mark?" It sounds a little imploring. Donghyuck opens his eyes with difficulty, just a sliver under his lashes, trying to focus on Mark, who has been kneeling on the floor beside him, unmoving. Mark doesn't stop counting, doesn't acknowledge the call verbally, but he meets Donghyuck's gaze, blown pupils dark and watery. He notices in this light, more diffused over Donghyuck, that his cheeks are blotchy and flushed all across his nose, and his eyes are glazed over, rimmed pink and skittish.

"You're feverish" Mark says quietly after he completes his count, voice a gentle ripple in the night. He removes his hand from Donghyuck's burning forehead and sets the hand he's been holding by the wrist down onto the blanket. There seems to be no pain besides that, but the temperature is high enough to weaken Donghyuck's body. Looking at his feverish countenance, Mark feels guilt stinging his chest, his shoulder, his neck, everywhere Donghyuck has touched. He should have expected this, a fever is very possible after one gets drenched in the rain and then walks across half the city soaked to his undergarments. The warm coals in Mark's room, the dry clothes, the brief sleep can only prevent so much.

And now Donghyuck is feverish and trembling like a leaf under the blanket, his hand twitching above it. Mark wouldn't have known, had Donghyuck not dragged himself out of bed and down the stairs to wake him in his delirium. That thought bites harder, draws blood, makes the beast in him thrash violently in his chest, and Mark clenches a fist on his thigh.

"No, your hands just might be cold" Donghyuck insists, tries to retort with a cheeky, sleepy grin, playfulness so deeply rooted that he can't give up on it, even now, trying to tease Mark. Mark finds it endearing, a touch of comfort that calms him and dims the angry tightness of his features. Donghyuck wouldn't know how worried he is, troubled and frowning and berating himself. Of course, he is feverish. By tomorrow, he might not even remember the sweet smile that Mark wholeheartedly allows on his lips for him. For a moment, Donghyuck observes him wordlessly, though it is doubtful whether he can actually see him, and he seems a little pensive, expectant; Mark remains silent, no use in bickering. He should get wet towels.

He doesn't expect the last bit of Donghyuck's strength to be spent searching for Mark's hand, his fingers skimming over the soft blanket. Mark flinches a little when the heated skin brushes his fingers, but he doesn't pull away, allowing Donghyuck's hand to hover around the contours of his fingers in exploration and cover his knuckles.

"Your hands..they feel nice" he mumbles, eyes falling shut as his touch settles.

Mark stares at their hands, cold and pale fingers covered by strong and elegant ones. He hasn't touched Donghyuck before, not without gloves or for longer than mere moments. Naturally, his hands are -and will always be- less warm than Donghyuck's, the blood in them borrowed. Usually people shy away from the cool touch, and therefore Mark avoids touching anyone without gloves anymore -there's hardly an occasion calling for an exposed touch in the first place. It is likely Donghyuck finds the contact relieving his burning fever, however, seeking it because it's pleasant, his thumb tracing satisfied, rhythmic half-arcs on the side of Mark's wrist. Mark should still get towels for him, but presently he feels curious, a little bit unwilling; when was the last time someone touched him in such comfort and tenderness, a touch they craved, a touch so gentle on his skin, a want. It makes him want, too -in a painful way he must restrain. Staring at their hands, he breathes in measure through his nose, caramel again. His entire being aches to be held like his hand, whimpers for the warm cradle of Donghyuck's fingers, pretty and golden and tired.

"I think you should stay here and rest for now" he coaxes out of his throat at last, sounding a little hoarse. He's tearing himself apart, instinct and responsibility pulling in opposite directions. He somehow manages to convince himself to extract his hand out of unwilling fingertips, as gently as possible, thoughtlessly caressing over Donghyuck's wrist to appease him as he places the hand against the blanket. Feeling the pulse, the skin, the warmth. It's...more. It's more intimate than necessary, more dangerous than Mark should be allowed, more compelling than he can fight.

The towels.

"Are you a doctor, Mr. Lee?" Donghyuck mumbles as Mark is getting to his feet, a bleary smirk on his lips, eyes too heavy to open, even for just a glance. Until a moment ago, Mark had thought he'd fallen asleep.

"What if I were?" he humours the ailing man in his beddings, a lopsided smile denting his cheek. He was, once. Medicine was simpler then, but the basics still apply and illness demanding attention was just as severe then as it is now. He could draw blood if the need arises, he thinks in private irony. But, this time, he doesn't think Donghyuck will need a proper doctor, unless he starts coughing or breathing with difficulty. Mark will still keep watch at his bedside till the fever subsides, he wouldn't find peace otherwise. Donghyuck tilts his head in Mark's direction following his voice, looking smug, if a nearly asleep version of it, eyes permanently closed and body lax.

"Was it before or after you were a librarian?"

Mark's stomach drops, the smile vanishing from his face.

"What" he whispers in horror, numb to his fingertips. The light falls so differently on Donghyuck now, but he remains firmly silent, already lost to deep dreams. The curling dread in Mark's spine keeps him frozen in place, pale and breathing shallowly for some time, his thoughts roaring and sweeping down rough, scraping paths, like swallows diving down the cliff sides. In his time, Mark has been many things, and in his days, he has been unwise and impatient and naive and fooled, but lately, if anything, he has been cautious. Donghyuck...couldn't possibly know. Could he?

***

When the dawn breaks, the rain has exhausted itself into a soft drizzle. The air is crisp as autumn apples, but more mellow, bursting on your tongue with the sweetness of summer grapes. If the rains keep visiting all summer, it will be a nightmare for the vines, but the city gardens seem happy, blooming longer and vibrantly under dim, gray skies. The braver birds are singing this morning, perched in the safety of their nests and giving a chirper note to the day, cats sneeze away the dew and resume their routine with careful steps on wet dirt and stone. Similarly, most people have started their day as usual, with breakfasts behind open windows; soon, shoes will be heading to work, babbling voices will be on their way to school, heavy carriages will roll by where only newspaper leaves are turning soggy against the stones now, having slipped off the swift bicycles delivering them around the city.

Earlier than most, Mark ventured out on a trip to the market, mostly void of customers at that hour, only suppliers and store workers sparsely moving around. He doesn't keep noteable edible supplies at home, but Donghyuck has to eat. As soon as his fever broke with the first light of day, Mark sighed in relief and got dressed, quickly arriving at the market while it was still being arranged for the day, storekeepers sweeping and giving him odd side-glances; but an unusually early customer is still a paying one, and there was no reason to question him. He didn't buy much, just enough for a few meals that would be good for Donghyuck's recovery. He did buy a few different teas that he probably won't need, on a whim, a couple of them medicinal and bitter, one light and soothing, and a fragrant one, and he bought sugar too, and a small box of butter biscuits. By the time he realised all these vain purchases were only a way to please and spoil Donghyuck, to ease Mark's guilt for having the man fall sick into his hands, he was already halfway home and he could only berrate and scold himself for his indulgence as he walked the familiar streets.

Donghyuck was still sleeping when he returned, exhausted by a night of discomfort, and Mark let him be after checking his temperature and making sure he was comfortably covered with the blanket. He drew the curtains of his bedroom closed, but arranged them so that a sliver of light would slip through at the furthest side of the room, not enough to disturb one sleeping, but giving a faint glow on outlines and colours in the room, so that one can see their surroundings if they wake. Afterwards, Mark opened the windows downstairs to chase out the humidity of the night, and returned to his morning purchases in the kitchen -a room he is not used to frequent, admittedly.

Mark remembers cooking. Not as much as food, memories of taste, sharing, eating, but he has watched the process enough times to remember basic things about it, he has even cooked -although he doesn't eat- a few more times in his long past. He remembers most vividly the experienced, loving hands of his mother, as she magically transformed raw and strange things into hearty, delicious food. It's not anything complicated he had to cook today after all, just rice porridge, with a pot and ladle. He had to guess the seasoning, since a taste by him wouldn't have made a difference, unfortunately, but the result was not unappealing, grains and tiny chopped pieces for Donghyuck's health mixed in. He brought fresh water with the serving upstairs and left it steaming on the bedside table, letting Donghyuck nap a while longer, while he returned to clean up the kitchen and brew some herbal tea.

Teacups. Mark has teacups in the house and he had no idea before today. The one in his hands, dainty and pretty on its porcelain saucer, makes him absently wonder if maybe Johnny gifted the set to Mark at some point in the past, as an inadvertent prop to be more social, as an excuse to invite people to his house, for tea. Mark definitely has a few trinkets from Renjun, an old lamp he salvaged once and a complicated star-navigating device he once fixed, for example, so why not keep a few hidden, forgotten treasures from Johnny too, it would make sense. Either way, he is unexpectedly glad his lonely and neglected kitchen is unintentionally equipped with some basic and handy wares to offer at such a time -though he would have never guessed such a time would ever come at all.

Going up the stairs and balancing a fragile cup of dark liquid is not as easy as it sounds for Mark. He's never been particularly agile, one could even call him clumsy even. There is an unnecessary amount of concentration and tentativeness involved, but he makes it without spilling any tea in the end, and he heads to his room more confidently, prepared to wake Donghyuck so he can eat and regain some of his strength.

But Donghyuck is already awake.

It's only a small surprise -an even tinier disappointment-, to find him sitting up in bed and having his meal already, quiet as a mouse. He pauses when Mark appears at the door, lowering his spoon into the bowl timidly and blinking at him, eyes still glimmering after the bout of nightly fever. Mark walks to the window first, pulling the curtain aside to bring in the morning light, but he doesn't do it harshly, painfully, still leaving the curtain closest to the bed closed.

"Oh, you're awake" he says, tugging on the fabric so that it blocks the sun from directly hitting Donghyuck's face. His voice was bound to sound too loud in the silence of the morning, so Mark made sure to wield his words into a lighthearted encouragement. He turns around and crosses the room, approaching the bed and setting down the tea where the bowl of food previously occupied on Donghyuck's bedside. "And with an appetite, that's good" Mark approves more quietly, smiling faintly as he sits down in the chair he had brought over last night -where he spent most of it in the end.

Donghyuck blinks at him, not quite wary but a little confused, the bowl nearly forgotten in his hands, resting innocently over the blanket in his lap. It's already missing a few spoonfuls, that's good. Who knows when Donghyuck's last proper meal was before yesterday evening, and he must be starving after the struggle his body was put through overnight.

Mark tugs his sleeves higher to his elbows mechanically, not taking his eyes away from Donghyuck; he is scandalously dressed down in front of company, in dark pants and a simple white shirt that hangs loosely on his frame, the clothes he changed into in a hurry this morning before hiding them under a buttoned up coat to rush off to the market. He doesn't think his laid back appearance to be terribly inappropriate, however, because Donghyuck is in no better state. Still wearing Mark's chemise and half covered with a blanket, the string on top has come loose in the heat of the night, putting more honey skin, adorable beauty spots and elegant curves of flesh and bone on display. Mark is a gentleman, of course, he pretends not to see. Donghyuck's hair is wild and messy, especially tight ringlets curled around his forehead, where the towels kept them dump, over and over all night. Cheeks a little pink, like the ripe side of peaches, Donghyuck wets his lips and shifts in place a little restlessly.

"I'm sorry, I assumed-" he begins to mumble, eyes dropping to the food in his lap, but Mark silences him with a cool hand on his forehead.

"You assumed correctly" he reassures him, trying to estimate the temperature of the skin against his hand. Be it at his words or at his touch, Donghyuck visibly relaxes, closing his eyes wordlessly, lashes fluttering against pink cheeks, waiting for Mark, a strangely intimate trust. It's probably because Mark repeated this action many times overnight, and a part of Donghyuck recognises it as comfort. "Your fever is down" he announces at last, removing his hand and busing himself with putting away the water basin and towels that were kept on the bedside table overnight. He refuses to acknowledge how halfhearted a task it has become to let go of Donghyuck physically, a sort of magnetic affinity for touching him developing in just one night, and Mark fears it will only deepen to worse from there if he lets it, if he is not careful. "I can reheat this for you, if you'd like" he offers, noticing Donghyuck has opened his eyes and picked up his spoon again. A pair of warm eyes turns to Mark instantly.

"No, no, it's fine" he is quick to say, his hands giving a distracted little steer at the contents of the bowl, eyes still wide at Mark, "it's delicious, thank you"

An amused scoff leaves Mark's lips before he can think of it, and Donghyuck looks surprised. Mark would be too, if he realised how uncharacteristically informal it sounded.

"You're not a very good liar" Mark tells him, but there is no bite of reprimand to it. He has no way of being absolutely certain about this without a taste, naturally, but how delicious could porridge be, Mark is only glad it's edible, at least. Donghyuck pouts without realising, his effort to be obliging and obedient once more thwarted; he had been trying to avoid being a nuisance to his host since yesterday evening, attempting to be pleasant and discreet instead, but his intentions became greatly inconvenienced with a fever in the way. He had to accept Mark's care even if it pained him to be a burden, and Mark may be more tired and less carefully composed than usual, but he doesn't regret it. He can feel the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "But you must be very hungry, probably, so I'll pretend to believe you this time" he placates his patient, who quirks his lips as if he's keeping his words locked in, but says nothing in the end, breaking his pensive stare to focus on his food again.

For a while, it is quiet. The occasional clink of the spoon against the bowl is faint, the birds outside are quieter with the drizzle picking up just slightly, umbrellas passing by on the street without great discomfort. Donghyuck fidgets under the blanket every now and then, but that too is as small a sound as the curtains swaying against each other in the mild breeze downstairs. Mark gazes at the combed clouds out the window and idly contemplates bringing a book for Donghyuck now that he is awake, correspondence supplies in case he wants to contact his family, maybe the vase of flowers too, for company. He doubts Donghyuck needs to stay bedridden for the entire day, but he might wish to nap often, to replenish his energy.

"Mark?"

The call of his name cracks the silence, uncertain, and Mark promptly turns to Donghyuck again, not bothering to unlace the arms across his chest or shift his crossed at the knee legs; his stance might seem buttoned up, but considering how prim and proper Mark usually holds his posture, this betrays how comfortably he feels in a room with Donghyuck. Said man quickly averts his gaze before their eyes meet, previously watching Mark but now avoiding him. He frowns at that, a little perplexed. The way Donghyuck rubs the tip of his index finger on the porcelain rim of the teacup that has found its way to his hands looks somewhat bashful, and for a moment Mark entertains the bizarre thought that he might not like the tea after his meal and doesn't know how to say it politely.

"Did I say anything, before I passed out?" Donghyuck asks with a brave breath, ears blushing in embarrassment, his eyes still taken with his tea.

Unfortunately, it's not about the tea.

"This morning?" Mark feigns naivety, pushing his suddenly surging, jagged and painful panic down with an iron fist, managing to appear completely calm, nonplussed, no fidgeting, no thin voice, no cold sweat, not even a surprised blink. He addresses this as casually as an innocent person would -as he most definitely does not feel like. "No, not really, you were just planning on leaving -which will have to wait till tomorrow, as you may imagine" he shrugs his shoulders dismissively, and he expects Donghyuck to take the escape route Mark has cleared for them, console himself that Mark does not remember or has not made anything special of last night's delirium.

But Donghyuck often likes defying Mark's expectations, always jostling the ground Mark thought was safe beneath him, and this time too, his meek demeanor switches to a glare at Mark without any hesitation, a deep frown etched between his eyebrows marring his face.

"You're not a very good liar either" he tosses back, and it does sound like an accusation from his lips. Mark loses the carefully crafted, gullible expression he had painted on his features previously and stares back at Donghyuck blankly.

He can't help it. He can mislead impressions, he can muddle the conversation, omit parts of the truth and choose others to weave a favourable narrative, but he can't outright lie to Donghyuck. Not with those depthless eyes watching him. Those lips accusing him. The truth is, Mark is not particularly eager to discuss last night, and it rings very clear in his unrelenting silence. There are the thin forbidden lines they had to cross, like Donghyuck falling helplessly into Mark's embrace and mumbling weakly into his ear, or Mark pressing Donghyuck to his chest so he could carry him upstairs, scorching breath on his neck as Donghyuck's arms wound around it. Those decency refrains they had to put aside mean fluster. Then, there are the bold forbidden lines they crossed, talking about Mark's past. Those mean danger. He doesn't want to touch them. He couldn't begin to explain, and even though he's not supposed to have Donghyuck at all, it feels too soon to lose him.

But, again, Donghyuck likes defying Mark's expectations.

"So what I remember must be true" he whispers under his breath, trying to figure Mark's thoughts behind his impassive mask, eyes searching. He doesn't seem nervous anymore, a dreadful acceptance overtaking him, body resting limp against the headboard of the bed and all its pillows. "I...really told you" he says, his gaze, clear as a crystal lake, lingering in Mark's eyes.

Such few words, such precise intention. Mark really doesn't want to elaborate. He'd take the uncomfortable, bloodless heat of mortification about everything else last night over the loosest thread of this conversation. A part of him wonders what Donghyuck may know, how, but even _he_ is prudent enough to snuff that curiosity out cold and cover it with a semblance of anger that sprouts from insult. That he hides as well.

"It was the fever talking" he dismisses, his voice nonchalant and casual as before, but his expression remains sourly grim, so he breaks eye contact and turns away, facing the window. The daylight outside has dimmed, probably darker, thicker clouds passing. "It doesn't matter"

It really wouldn't matter. Even if Donghyuck has some shard of forbidden knowledge, Mark could convince him it was a feverish illusion, glaze around it and shroud everything in doubt, then keep his safe distance. But it _does_ matter. If Donghyuck somehow knows even a tiny thing, Mark cannot dispute his sanity to confuse him, ignore it and pretend nothing ever happened between them, and he cannot stay away. An impasse he is painfully reluctant to break, and which Donghyuck is all too eager to shatter in one blow.

"You're not upset?" Donghyuck sounds surprised, a little doubtful. Mark's facade twists into genuine puzzlement as he looks at the man again.

"Why would I be?" he asks without really asking. Donghyuck couldn't answer anyway. How entitled would Mark be to feel upset at someone's memories? What use would it be to feel upset over choices of his past? Why would he feel upset at Donghyuck for reaching out, being curious, trying to come closer? He tries to deflect again. "You were sick, you could hardly form a coherent sentence" he reasons, and that is not a lie, so he can say it earnestly, looking into Donghyuck's eyes.

Strangely, the innocently wide-eyed, lost expression on Donghyuck's face morphs into a darker one at those words, a storm wrapping around itself ominously in his eyes. Why is it that Mark cannot figure out what to expect from him? Why are they moving on completely opposite sides while constantly flowing from one end to the other themselves, missing each other in the middle?

"But, I meant it" he insists, voice a stubborn octave lower, eyes refusing to yield for whatever reason. So he comes wielding a tempest, and Mark has no option but to let him break against him, like the raging waves chipping the cliff rocks.

"What did you mean?" he asks another non-question. They both know what Donghyuck meant -and Mark fears the tempest, the pain on the surface, but the time for this conversation is all wrong, detrimental, and if he cannot avoid it when life sets them in a path to collide, he might as well herd Donghyuck's storm his way and suffer.

"That I know you were a-" Donghyuck blurts out unnerved, but stops himself, swallows the anger Mark so anticipated, smoothes his features and temper to something calmer, more careful, considerate. He changed again, while looking right into Mark's eyes. What a creature. "You were a librarian. Once. Some long time ago" he confesses, voice gentler, patient, but firm.

It makes the world tumble upside down for Mark.

"That makes no sense, Donghyuck" he tries, really tries, but his body betrays his sudden nervousness, the absence of resolve, the weak flesh under his armour; his arms untwine from across his chest and drop to the sides of the chair, hips shifting his weight on the cushion, fingers pressing on fabric to keep still. "How would you know that anyway?" he baits, managing not to sound uncertain but merely curious, his last sliver of hope.

He was indeed a librarian, not too long ago. It was his last years of working in the human world before his current cycle of self-imposed -and highly necessary- social seclusion began. Mark only kept that job for more or less a decade, before he claimed he needed to leave, to nurse an old relative back to health, and subsequently disappeared from worldly matters, only passively appearing in vague context ever since, for the past twenty years. Donghyuck can't be much older than that, so if he knows anything, there's a good chance it would be hearsay, easy to muddle.

"I'd seen you!" he exclaims, with a conviction of a man who has nothing to hide, eyes boring into Mark's as if he can see through him, sheer as a veil of lace, or gleaming transparent as the waves in the sun.

Maybe it won't be easy after all.

"Maybe it was someone who looked like me then" Mark defaults to his usual excuse, practiced so many times it sounds almost like the truth. He remains composed, meticulously controlled and distant, an easy suggestion, a devastatingly desperate grasp at straws. His stomach churns uncomfortably, his breaths just a nudge away from falling into disarray with gasps and coughs, fingers pressing so tight to keep from trembling that his knuckles are white. And maybe Donghyuck sees through the panic, the terror, and mercifully chooses not to take offence at Mark's contradicting refute, the hard-set lines of his face melting into a sad crease of the eyebrows, downward turned lips, eyes full of emotion.

_No, no, don't do that._

"No, Mark, no" he says, honey voice ringing with melancholy, loneliness, dispairation -or maybe Mark is reading too much of himself into Donghyuck's tireless compassion. It's with undeniable grace that he sets the teacup aside and then leans closer, shifting to kneel on the bed outside of the covers, legs sinking into the blanket. "You can't deny this from me; I know it was you" he affirms quietly, holding Mark's gaze with an earnest yearning, with the tender care you hold a small animal. Mark cannot answer this, not unless in a recklessly destructive way. Donghyuck takes his silence as a prompt to continue, and he takes a breath to steady himself, hands closing in a loose hold around the covers.

"I was a child, maybe some twenty years ago, and my father was looking to buy the bakery. He needed city blueprints and copies from the City Hall library, and he brought me with him that day" he lays himself like an open book, watching Mark's silence with a hint of apprehension that dissolves into a faint redness, high on his cheeks. "I remember it was so quiet and huge and empty of people, it was a little scary. He told me to sit in the reading corner and wait while he followed a librarian to the archives, and I didn't want to be left alone...but you were there, behind the front desk. _You_ were there, just as you are, same eyes, same smile, same kindness to a little boy who was very comforted by your presence, and even plucked the courage to smile back at you" he finishes, words running a little fast over the last sentence. He blinks and lowers his gaze to Mark's neck, fingers scratching the blanket bashfully now, his blush spreading to his temples like butterfly wings.

All Mark can do for long, quiet moments is stare and inwardly regulate the pace of his breath. Some people sometimes remember him at random, and some of them only some of those times dare to cautiously breach the subject. Children don't usually remember. Men don't usually insist. Donghyuck...Donghyuck does. He remembers, and he insists, because it mattered to him then, and he matters to Mark now, so that leaves him with a knot pressing in his chest and a breath as hollow and stifling as the rainclouds.

"What you are saying is humanly impossible, Donghyuck" he chooses his words carefully, weighing them and wrangling them out of his tight throat with effort, voice calm and even, barely above a whisper. It's logic, not a lie, an omission, not a rebuke. But Mark is tired and unwilling, and helpless to Donghyuck's warmth, so it sounds almost inconsequential when it leaves his lips, wounded, worn down.

"I know" Donghyuck answers just as quietly, fingers playing in his lap now, closely observed by his eyes. He sounds as dismal as Mark feels, and the room is unbearably quiet, the flame between them glowing dim, barely an ember. Mark wonders if it's still raining outside, if that would be enough to wash them both away, drain their colours to gray. He is watching the troubled game of Donghyuck's fingers too, but he knows when Donghyuck lifts his eyes to look at him, he can sense it, and he looks back, with the serenity of a man who's been bruised and captured and surrendered. Contrastingly, Donghyuck gives him a steady, certain look, eyes glinting with pale daylight. "Because you're not human"

Hah.

Yes.

For a moment, Mark is not sure if he should be surprised. He _isn't_ human, not exactly. He was once, then while he was still young into that first life he died, and then he wasn't dead. He woke up to the kind smile of a man he'd only heard of in stories and he was no longer human, as he has been waking by himself ever since. Covering his past, hiding his age, avoiding suspicion is the most usual routine. It would be impossible, existing in a world that would be completely unaware of their existence -that of his kin-, but it is more convenient if they are only vaguely acknowledged, ignored, told as stories, never individually recognised. So, rather than denying that he is not human, he only ever had to suggest that he is human enough, be unremarkable, slip through the cracks and hover on the edges. But, what Donghyuck is saying is…

"I know you thought...you thought I didn't know" Donghyuck tries to make amends, noticing the surprise that has found a way to bloom on Mark's face, terrified wide eyes and pale lips, his body tense and frozen in shock, breath held. He must look so pitiful, poor horrified thing, that Donhyuck sways, reaches out a hand that almost touches Mark -not that Mark could avoid it if he wanted-, but it hesitates mid air and drops to his lap again. He shuffles closer instead, as if Mark can see his intentions better within reach. Mark can only feel him more, more warmth, more fragile vulnerability, more gravitational pull. "You couldn't know any better, it's been decades after all. And I didn't tell you. It didn't seem...important" Donghyuck explains, a little haltingly, as if he is ashamed, as if he knows the line he has crossed. Thinking back, he must have known all this time, from the first day Mark opened his door to him, through all their chance meetings, their budding friendship, even last night in the rain.

"It didn't seem important?!" Mark growls in apparent disbelief, a little venomously sarcastic, the bubbling feeling in his chest pushing so much he bursts without meaning to. Donghyuck winces, scrunching his nose, and Mark wants to apologise. He didn't mean to sound so harsh, even if it's justified, Donghyuck doesn't deserve it. He is too nice, too young, giving Mark that same soulful look, which is rapidly starting to ease its way under Mark's skin and bite straight at his heart.

"Not to me!" he declares, and Mark almost laughs out loud at the absurdity of this situation, a choked yelp jumping out of his throat. Obviously, not to him! Donghyuck seems to think of something else he hadn't realised before, sitting back down on his folded legs and adding more quietly, "Certainly not to anyone else; I didn't tell. I won't"

 _Does that even matter_ , Mark wonders.

"That's not…" Mark sighs in exasperation, giving up on words, hiding his face in his hands and balancing his elbows on his knees, hunched, defeated. Johnny would laugh. Renjun would watch with wide eyes. Taeyong would kick him in the shin. One man, one drop in the sea is not important. It's not a secret to share with just anyone, but they don't live alone or separate; sometimes, some people know, and they usually keep the secret honourably -or they are deemed mentally disturbed and their claims are shunned by the public, so it's not terribly threatening if someone knows. It wouldn't feel as heavy in his heart if Donghyuck wasn't...himself. What he is to Mark.

He sighs in the still silence of the room, but it doesn't ease his burdened chest, or his tangled thoughts. The rain ricochets off the window pane in feathery light strokes, a short-lived rush of wind twirling it out of balance. The darkness behind his palms is comforting, but false, neither real darkness nor comfort. He is trying to make a sensible choice, decide what should come next for them -and Donghyuck is still recovering, and still himself, and still Mark's.

"I didn't mean to tell you" Donghyuck breaks the silence after a while that felt like days and seconds at the same time. Mark can't resist peeking through his fingers at the sound of his dejected voice, but Donghyuck is looking down, sitting on the covers where he was, with his long legs half stretched and half bent on his side. His finger is drawing patterns on the blanket, scratching the fabric whenever his lips press thin with a twinge of regret. "Not like this. Not so soon. Maybe never, if I figured it'd be so upsetting"

 _I'm glad you told me_ , Mark wants to say, _or, maybe I'm not now, but I will be_.

Not like this, he said. Mark supposes they would agree that arguing over feverish mumbles and clumsily wrenching their way through something so personal for both is not the ideal way. And not so soon. He would agree with that the most. So soon, he is completely unprepared; then again, Donghyuck is ahead of most people, already suspecting the truth and surprisingly unafraid, so that path might not be as rough and long to tread with him. But if Mark knows himself, if he knows enough in his years to recognise what he feels for Donghyuck, he would eventually succumb to his fate and share the truth about himself at some point. The only reason he is upset is how suddenly, how strangely this is happening, how his oyster shell is not used to opening so soon in the dark sea -but he seems to be catching a ray of light through the waters, so maybe, just maybe, it's worth it.

"Are you not scared?" he asks, dropping his hands, but remaining with his elbows balanced on his knees. It should sound confused, suspicious, disbelieving at least, but it comes out very calm, and Mark suddenly realises he _feels_ calm. The agitation is gone, the swallows of fear in his mind have gone to sleep, and now he can see forward more clearly, he knows what choice to make.

"No" Donghyuck answers with conviction, no signs of hesitation, like something he knew all along, but it still comes out a little breathless, looking at Mark with wide and hopeful eyes, and Mark understands; maybe he hadn't been expecting Mark would talk to him again, be so patient with him, honest. Donghyuck almost smiles because Mark is not trying to avoid his eyes anymore, and that warms Mark's chest a little. "I am a little curious, if I'm being honest, but I can live with my questions" he admits, shrugging his shoulders and chuckling weakly, eyes never leaving Mark, as if seeing him for the first time again.

Mark raises an intrigued eyebrow; all the gruesome tales and hexes following his kin seem to have had no consequence for Donghyuck, who is curious, not afraid, has not been afraid from the start, holding onto the memory of Mark's kindness -and how Mark wishes he remembered too, but it was something too small and trivial in his centuries. He remembers everything else, however, and he will remember everything from now on. Like Donghyuck, gathering the soft daylight like a pearl, hair wild as a mane of gold and eyes glittering, proud shoulders and warm body and restless fingers, looking like a tame beast on Mark's bed.

"It seemed more important to live having you around" he admits more quietly, lashes fluttering and gaze dropping to Mark's neck, his ears turning a little red under his curls.

"As what?" Mark frowns. It's entirely different for him to want Donghyuck in his life. Donghyuck wanting him around and admitting it to him so openly as a peace offering, makes Mark's chest flutter whole, but for that very reason, for the very imminent danger, he needs to know where he stands. "Your undead, bizarre acquaintance?" he concludes, and the bite in his voice is sarcasm he means for himself, a self-deprecating tone that he can't help, but unexpectedly, Donghyuck takes offence, his patience run thin.

"As my friend, Mark!" he exclaims with an angry gasp, eyes bright with fire and face blooming in anger, a deep crease carving between his eyebrows. He looks like he wants to strangle Mark a little, and that's...good. He is not afraid of him and he is fiercely adamant on his feelings. It's a good thing, even if it makes Mark stare at him in surprise and disbelief, with a hint of concern. Donghyuck forges his way through his ire like an arrow that flies too fast to stop without fatal injuries. "Have I ever implied I care about anything else but you, as you are? Maybe I care _too much_ about you, and try to be interesting enough around you, and collect fragments about you like treasure, and flirt hopelessly with you, and wait for months for you to smile back at me! Maybe I'm so foolish, is that hard to believe?" he exclaims, loud enough for the entire house to hear, but as soon as he realises what he's confessing to, he stops himself with a hand over his mouth, a strangled whine spilling out before silence. His eyes are so round they are almost terrified, his cheeks a deep hue of pink Mark hasn't seen on him before, tears of mortification gathering and glistening in the corners of his eyes.

Foolish? Mark hasn't met a man who could be more of a fool as he is for Donghyuck. The words, the confession, feel like shearing fire in his chest and, although it stings a little, it soothes him, excites him simultaneously, washes comfortably over him like lazy waves against the shore.

"You're not foolish, Donghyuck" he says, finally straightening in his seat and reaching to take the reproachful fingers on Donghyuck's mouth into his hand. Donghyuck doesn't resist, even though Mark's hand is cold, even though his expression doesn't change and he still looks like he wishes the ground would swallow him, horrified with himself and his shameless forwardness -which Mark finds he is not opposed to. "You're just...rare" he soothes, gently stroking the knuckles of Donghyuck's soft hand comfortingly, smiles a little at the memory of trying to explain the very same thing to Renjun.

Donghyuck looks at a loss for words, pink lips gaping, flustered at the tender display, but his hand tightens around Mark's fingers, staying close, his. _Not so soon_ , Mark reminds himself, and with a final squeeze he lets go of Donghyuck's hand and the conversation for a later, more fitting time.

"We've said enough for one day" he says, sounding more like his usual, composed self, as he stands up and stretches his legs with the intention to brew another warm cup of tea for Donghyuck, seeing the cold, empty cup on the bedside table.

"Mark!" Donghyuck exclaims before he has time to make another move, and it sounds both scolding and pleading. Mark looks at the fading blush on his cheeks, the round innocence in his eyes, the hurt on his pouting lips, the demand and fluster and discontent at the one-sided dismissal that he still can't find words to dispute. But it's not as fierce as before, he's not upset. Mark's attention seems to settle his spirits a little, the lines of his face softening, and the sight makes something in Mark purr and slacken its grip on his heart.

The bane of his existence, Mark is painfully sure.

"Try to get some rest" he coaxes gently, leaning down to kiss Donghyuck's forehead, both his hands coming up to cradle the sides of Donghyuck's burning face for a moment before he goes.

***

After a distant, static night, daybreak comes to open skies with golds and pinks, the light rushing to all corners and unfolding in the shadow paths like glittering, sheer ribbons. There are dew drops in the foliage, hanging on the very edge of green leaves and shining in the sun like quivering prisms, the air smells of wet earth and cool stone, and birdlings are cheerful in their nests. Mark was awake when the gentle draft that pokes at the curtains through the open window was still a cool caress, now it is a comfortable touch, the sun breaking through the accumulated humidity of the past two days and reaching warm and loving hands to the world.

A rustle comes from upstairs, but Mark pointedly ignores it. His patient has recovered well and no longer needs his help, so he doesn't make any meddling offers or keep a close eye on him. Donghyuck has been invited to use the house as he wishes, and Mark meant it; there is nothing to hide in his ordinary days, nowhere he wouldn't allow Donghyuck to roam, and everything that has gathered here from Mark's long existence, if it's interesting at all, Donghyuck is welcome to explore to his heart's content. It seemed cruel and unnecessary to keep him bedridden and idle and confined to the bedroom, especially with the strange air between them, so Mark thought these perhaps unexpected or unusual allowances to a guest were not exactly unfitting to a boy who is anything but a stranger, who has more insight and more questions than most humans in centuries. It was also the only way to give Donghyuck a civil excuse for ignoring Mark's presence if he wished, while they're both confined under the same roof.

Surprisingly, Donghyuck was not very keen on excusing himself in pursuit of his own devices; on the contrary, he trailed after Mark from room to room, and even invited him to the kitchen -where Mark wouldn't have had any reason to be otherwise-, while he cooked last night's dinner for himself. He claimed he needed Mark to accommodate him, never mind that Mark is no more familiar with his kitchen than Donghyuck would be. He also kept Mark around for far longer than it took him to finish cooking, eating and doing the dishes. Mark could only oblige him -not unwillingly-, standing in the corner unobtrusively and watching with that deep, strange curiosity he has about everything concerning Donghyuck, as the latter chopped with nimble hands and stirred with elegant wrists, a practiced, relaxed ease in each movement. Mark has witnessed Donghyuck in his element at the bakery, and him cooking in Mark's kitchen was only slightly different, but nonetheless enthralling.

Before the night was too deep to be awake, Donghyuck lingered in the library with Mark. He made a teasing joke as he pulled a book from the shelf, that he was a little disappointed he wouldn't stumble on any coffins or discover secret passages and ancient treasures, like in the stories. He didn't seem disappointed, or serious at that, only playful in the lighthearted grin he flashed at Mark before settling down in an armchair. Mark felt his stomach turn all the same at the remark, realising once again how unprepared he is for such conversations, for someone to acknowledge the truth so openly and unrepentantly. Mercifully, Donghyuck didn't say anything further, resigning to the silent company of his book. He did, however, steal pensive and calculating glances at Mark every so often, when he thought Mark wasn't looking, lips quirking as if trying to hold back his words, giving up with a soft grumble under his breath. Mark was watching everything of course, he was sitting on pins and needles, waiting for another confrontation that never happened, in the end Donghyuck falling asleep curled up with his book and Mark carrying him upstairs again. He did not dare undo the robe Donghyuck had wrapped around himself all day, only covering him with the blanket as he was instead, and if he spent some quiet minutes at his bedside in soft candlelight, no one has to know.

Mark spent the next few hours at his desk in the library, elbows turning sore against the hardwood, head cradled in his hands. His eyes watched the dark void that stretched beyond the windows for minutes on end, futilely asking for some guidance.

Since the morning, Mark has taken to his correspondence with Taeyong instead, drafting a summary of his woes, which will need quite a bit of editing to be concise and decent enough for a letter, but it feels liberating to jot it down disjointedly and artlessly and in length, so he doesn't care about the reading and organizing he'll have to do later. Halfway through writing and thinking about _Donghyuck Donghyuck Donghyuck_ , he gave up on the half finished draft of several pages, and picked up a clean sheet of paper, sketching, drawing, shading, fleshing out the memory of Donghyuck curled in the armchair with a blanket and a book from last night. Taeyong had asked him for a picture, Mark reasons, but he knows it's only an excuse, feelings spilling onto the paper and bleeding through every line he draws, as he indulgently and wistfully contemplates the face of a certain boy.

He's lazily tracing Donghyuck's curls, with gentleness as if he was combing his fingers through it, when he notices deliberate, determined steps descending the stairs, and he hides his drawing under the flurry of papers on the secrétaire, picking up another to layer over the ones with Donghyuck's name on them. He starts another letter he will most probably not send, simply to give himself something to pretend to be occupied with. _Dear Taeyong, you'd laugh at me. I skitter around a depthless pond like a dragonfly, knowing that, eventually, I will be inevitably compelled to touch the water and leave ripples behind_. Donghyuck doesn't appear right away. Mark can hear him in the kitchen, a bit of shuffling, then a faint scent of floral tea wafts through the house, comforting in the warm morning. _He likes his tea sweet_ , Mark scribbles absently, _would all mornings with him be like this?_ Then he writes a few more words to lose that phrase in a paragraph.

He comes with a teacup held in both hands, wearing the same blue borrowed robe from yesterday, cinched at the waist, newly wrapped around his slender figure. Mark glances up at him, hoping it will be brief, knowing he will fail the moment he finds Donghyuck already staring back at him, deep, warm eyes and sleep-flushed cheeks, glossy lips and golden locks falling into his eyes. Mark is not breathing, vaguely he knows it by the dull, wet pressure building in his chest, but Donghyuck doesn't say anything, no matter how many seconds get trapped in the silence between them, merely staring at Mark from the door, a little like he is accusing him, a little like he is expecting something, a lot like he is thinking the day is too sunny to stay here anymore. The underlying tension has been present before, a familiar caress whenever Donghyuck looks at him, through him, and Mark has yet to figure what it means, feeling it squirm in his chest, impossible to ignore.

But Mark stays in Donghyuck's silent spell for just a little longer. Their time is running out. Donghyuck will have to return to his life soon, Mark will have to make decisions, but they won't have this moment again.

"Are you feeling unwell?" Mark says quietly, a sharp pang of sweetly numbing pain in his chest breaking through his sternum and bringing his breath back into his voice. He tears his eyes away, finally, returning them to his papers, to the meticulous pretense he orchestrated earlier. His pen hesitates unconvincingly, hovering over his small letters, his thoughts too scattered to chase down in his head and remember what he'd been writing, his vision impossible to focus, though stubbornly glued to the papers in front of him.

"Physically? No, I'm fine" Donghyuck answers, calm on the surface but reflecting fractured glass and steel daggers underneath. It makes Mark queasy, almost jumping in his seat as Donghyuck passes by, crossing the living room with even steps, stopping somewhere behind Mark. His composure feels haunting, and the hairs at Mark's neck rise, his head swimming with terror at how easy it seems in this moment for the two of them to splinter apart.

Not all days are nice. Some are not easy, and not patient, and not pleasant. Many regard it as a sign of love, to stoically endure through such days. It doesn't feel right for him, not on this day. He doesn't want to skitter around Donghyuck's emotions like a nervous dragonfly, provide hollow reassurance, be an empty presence outwaiting the storm. He wants to work through it, make sense of it. He doesn't want to endure, he wants to understand. So he takes a breath and dives.

"You're angry" A conversational remark, not a question, but a guess. Mark is still figuring him out slowly, and it's tricky and dangerous and thrilling, like charting a map of the sea. He doesn't lift his head, doesn't turn around, his hand traces a half circle on the paper that his eyes are looking at, unseeing. He fears to move, the air too fragile, so he only listens carefully, waiting.

"Frustrated" is Donghyuck's clipped response, a small correction, a generously helpful recalibration. _Oh_ , Mark thinks. Belatedly, it sinks in how scared he was of Donghyuck being angry, only because of the relief that floods him like a moonless tide. His shoulders loosen minutely, his fingers fiddling with the pen, and he wonders if he should say something, apologise, turn around to look at Donghyuck at least. A small sigh, the dainty tapping of a finger against porcelain. "But I understand. I'm not angry at you" Donghyuck's voice is smoother than before, like honey balm on chaffed skin. Mark turns a complete reverse in his seat, letters forgotten.

How can Donghyuck understand, without Mark saying a word, without proper answers to his questions; Mark wants to explain, he wants to share everything with Donghyuck, but words don't come easy to him, and he's been thrown into a whirlwind since yesterday morning. He can feel the intention, the sentiment, the overwhelming need gathering on his tongue, but as compelling as it is, it is chaotic, and if it pours out unhindered, it might not be a gentle, nourishing rain, but an uprooting, destructive storm. And Mark feels the noose of time tightening around his throat even more, because no, Donghyuck doesn't understand. If he did, if he could grasp even a fraction of Mark's feelings for him, he wouldn't be standing so far away and gazing at the sky, refusing to look at Mark now, leaning against the window and nursing his tea in defeat.

 _Look at me_ , Mark silently pleades to no avail, _I'm in pain for you, please wait for me_.

"Do you smell flowers?" Donghyuck asks quietly, still looking at the sun in the sky, glinting in his eyes, a little glassy. It sounds an awful lot like a distraction, hiding something else.

He does. It's Mark's scent. Flowers in the rain.

"It might be from the garden" he says, all he can say for now. Except for a few things that carry it by being constantly close to him -his bedsheets, his clothes, his home-, his personal scent is rarely noticeable, especially to humans; it is usually too weak to pick up, it turns into an undefined hint when he is close to flowers, but it especially flairs when the rain on the flowers is just new or fading. It took Renjun months to pinpoint, Johnny sometimes forgets it altogether, and Taeyong says he misses it like a breath of fresh air on rainy days. It's not odd that Donghyuck noticed, wearing Mark's clothes in his home and standing by the dewy garden. _It's me_ , Mark wants to say, he wants to give this preciously own, small part of him to Donghyuck, but then he'd have to say a lot more.

"Snowflakes" Donghyuck says, looking at the flowers brimming in Mark's garden. "I'd been wondering what they might be" he muses, his small smile of private amusement also tinged with sadness. It stabs Mark's unbeating heart with a pain he didn't know he could still feel, clogging his throat. "The flower's name is leucoium; it means white and purple. They symbolise hope" Donghyuck carries on, then shifts his balance on the window ever so slightly, tilting himself to look back at Mark, the same wounded, gentle smile directed at him now.

Hope is something Mark very dearly needs at the moment.

His fingers tighten their hold on the back of his chair, holding back from doing something foolish, like sweeping Donghyuck in an embrace or wiping his unshed tears away. There is an endless pause between them, and something in Mark growls and dares him to break it, propriety and prudence be damned, one beast to another, storm to storm, man to man, take him, make Donghyuck bound to him, make him _his own_.

But Mark, for better or worse, is not just a sum of his instincts.

"The rain is gone, I'll be taking my leave" Donghyuck whispers, voice choking a little, but his body, the way he moves, is no longer defeated. It is hurried, flustered, distracted, hands putting the cup down on the windowsill, their own interrupted story. Mark gives him a perplexed look, his eyebrow creasing. Did he do something wrong? Donghyuck doesn't even look at him, cheeks flushed in his sudden hurry, avoiding even to breathe Mark's way across the room and running up the stairs. Mark is left staring after him, hands trembling.

He is unpredictable as ever, and the change of pace, of conversation, of attitude, make Mark's boiling chest breathless again, like a punched shift in balance. He'd be stumbling if he weren't sitting down. He is not sure what Donghyuck saw in him to trigger such a reaction, but a part of him turns self-conscious of the things he didn't hide, things Donghyuck could have seen. It makes him both more cautious and more determined, if that is at all possible.

It feels like minutes or hours pass, until the daze of the morning keeping a drowsy veil over the confusion ripples with the sound of heavy steps, going much faster down the stairs than before. Mark is still looking at the doorway to the living room since Donghyuck left, which is how he sees Donghyuck coming the moment he reaches the ground floor. He has changed back into his own clothes, a clean and dry white shirt, gray pants, a bundle of his jacket and cloak in his hands that he temporarily sets aside, hanging over the carved end of the staircase railing. His steps slow down, nearing the doorway, his eyes never leaving Mark; there is still a wordless request in them, but he seems hesitant now, hands fidgeting nervously. Looking at him, dressed more like himself and ready to leave, Mark's heart melts to the floor at the impending loss, sinking through the floorboards, heavy and cold. Donghyuck shifts his weight from foot to foot, licks his lips uncertainly.

"Thank you for your hospitality. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, and- well." he says, voice a little tight and a little sad, his hands making vague gestures when words fail, eyes dropping to Mark's neck guiltily. Mark's body is stiff and made of inflexible stone, but he feels like he should be standing for this, so he stands, hands keeping him in balance against the secrétaire.

"No need to apologise" he says softly, honestly, a tiny smile of encouragement curling the edges of his lips, though he can barely feel it. Donghyuck looks into his eyes, still unconvinced, but Mark is certain he doesn't need an apology, his lips smiling more naturally now, albate a bit tentative. "I hold no ill feelings towards you" he reassures Donghyuck with the most accurate, carefully selected words. All he can say for now. No ill feelings. He wishes that was enough to express even a sliver of his feelings -but it's too soon to talk of feelings, to bring words of them into the world.

Donghyuck nods, slowly. He seems to be thinking, sensing the unsaid words, seeing them hover like golden dust in the sunlit air between them and not touching them yet. His fingers flex and curl in loose fists.

Mark lowers his eyes to the desk, littered with papers and words about Donghyuck. It might be an act of courtesy, letting him go without Mark's heavy, complicated eyes following him. He really cannot stand to see him go. His chest is itching as if echoing with dull thuds, his throat is tight with excuses to invite Donghyuck to stay, please stay. There is no reason for him to stay; Mark won't be any more able to say the things that must be said than he was last night or this morning. But silence, even tense and enigmatic and sweetly cutting, was better with Donghyuck. He hears footsteps across the floor, he expects the door soon with a hollow ache and a sigh that he stifles to a muffled sob.

"Mark"

He lifts his head so fast it's almost disorienting, finding Donghyuck standing as close to him as he sounded, right next to him, tall and real and warm. And before Mark can articulate his surprise, eyes still wide, Donghyuck has a firm hold on his shirt, pulling him in and…

Kissing him.

At first, the smart bow of Donghyuck's lips is chastely pressed against the seam of Mark's mouth, but then he tilts his head just so, and Mark closes his eyes, lips falling open just a little, just enough for Donghyuck to tug on his lower lip, slow heat and a gentle shiver running through Mark's body. He can taste caramel, and...butter biscuits. He can actually taste them. He didn't know that was possible. He would have never imagined it'd feel like this.

Donghyuck's lips are gone in a moment, the ghost of them still a pleasant numbness on Mark's lips, a breath, a body, still close to him. Mark's hands hover near Donghyuck's waist, and he physically aches to touch him, kiss him, wild and unreserved and slow and sweet and deep, again, and then again. He doesn't, not _yet_. A hand lets go of his shirt, slithering between them for warm fingers to touch his jaw, and Mark lets out a shaky breath, eyes opening, meeting Donghyuck's so close he can count his lashes.

"Mark" Donghyuck repeats, sounding far more wrecked this time, voice broken and low and intimate. He swallows, eyes flying from Mark's eyes to his cheek mole to his lips, up to his eyes again, memorising him, reading him, his breath still hot on Mark's lips. He finally locks onto Mark's eyes, determination dancing like a flame in his gaze. "I hold a lot of feelings towards you, and I won't bother you with them ever again, but I will never apologise for them either, understood?" he says it quietly, but it rings in Mark's mind like windchimes in vast silence, and when he takes half a breath to settle his fluttering chest, Donghyuck gets momentarily distracted with his lips. He promptly blinks up at Mark, catching himself, his cheeks painted in a lovely deep flush and his lashes so long Mark can almost feel them brush against his nose.

No regrets. Wanting this almost as much as Mark, and they both know it.

Sinking into warm brown eyes, with darker flecks of cocoa brown near the centre, Mark almost leans in again, still tasting sweetness in his breath. But he stops himself, barely holding back at the thought that he should answer, Donghyuck is expecting it. He holds his breath and nods, the smallest movement, but Donghyuck is close enough to feel it more than see it, noses almost bumping against one another. Donghyuck's features shift, a magnificent sight to watch from such close distance, but it stings Mark's heart a little, under all the pleasant, honey-coated daze; Donghyuck looks almost pained, almost like he's about to steal another kiss, lashes fluttering on his cheeks with uncertainty and admirable restrain, and Mark can feel the ghost of his lips more than before like a promise, but Donghyuck frowns.

"I have to go" he whispers, voice catching in his throat, and pulls away, leaving Mark frozen and alone, in the silence of a suddenly too empty house.

***

Mark sleeps and wakes, sleeps and wakes. Nothing changes from one sunny day to the next, summer slowly stretching comfortably over the city. Nothing, except for Donghyuck's scent fading from the pillow, Mark's sleepless hours and yearning sketches of every memory he has with Donghyuck, drafts of conversation, explanations, imaginary plans piling invisibly in the corner every night.

He hasn't seen him or heard from him in a week. Mark is not sure what to make of it. Thinking of Donghyuck's words over and over, he is no longer sure Donghyuck meant to say his affections haven't changed or if he meant to say goodbye. It torments him every night, and when the sun is the warmest in the sky, Mark leans against the window trying to feel the warmth of it on his lips.

Could he...let himself hope? The snowflakes in the garden have seen Donghyuck's sad smile and they're still in bloom. For hours, holding an open book on the same page, Mark gets lost in thought. He thinks...he thinks of early mornings, smiling lips kissing him before they leave, warm hands combing through his hair, coaxing him back to sleep, soft laughter if he reaches to grasp them. He thinks of lazy steps bringing a comforting blanket over his shoulders while he's reading, sneaky fingers playing on his throat, stealing his book, his heart, making him read to them aloud. And he thinks of long walks home late in the evenings, through the parks and by the market, of the kitchen filled with chatter, his clumsy fingers learning in flour, kisses stained of fruit while making syrup; he thinks of anger sometimes, frustration, exhaustion, making up again, together, whatever Donghyuck wants.

He has to remind himself that what Donghyuck wants might not be what Mark wants, but he has to do it less often as days pass, the berating rebuke turning to sensoring habit, turning to common sense, turning to reasonable restrain.

It feels uncertain and unchanging, but the silent time he is given works, urging him in a solid and decisive path. He knows what to do, what to say now. It will be slow, and Donghyuck will have to be patient and trust him, but Mark has hope. And if it proves false and Donghyuck doesn't want him anymore, or wants different things, or wants more than he can offer, Mark will have time to find out, and he won't accidentally destroy them, or make them so heavily burdened that they would collapse. If anything, Mark's hands have always been gentle. And now Mark's heart is ready, for the insanity, for the hurt, for the love.

***

The sky of a spirited man is somehow brighter. The air is lighter, his steps are faster. There is a certain vigour to his countenance, an unseen ripple of excitement in his body, the glimpse of a bright light in his eye. Mark is a man in pursuit of a journey, searching for the first star to guide him across uncharted waters. He is not afraid, neither experienced in any way, a combination of confidence and dread flowering in his every breath with delicate pink petals.

No one notices, of course, not even when Mark finds himself walking down the familiar, busy streets of the city centre, turning left in a sunlit alley lined with tangerine trees, and stopping right front of a bakery's wide windows.

It's still late morning and many customers are visiting, lazy or hurried, much like many other shoppers walking up and down the street. The scent of freshly baked bread and sugar swirls under the door, follows the passersby like another ray of sun, draws curious eyes to the window and the displays within. Mark remembers the cosy corners and beautiful shelves, the artful pastries and the vase of fresh sunflowers in the corner of the wooden counter. He picks out the hints of caramel in the air, and a private smile finds its way to his lips. Unlike the last time, with the glinting haze of midday and the quaint silence of the empty shop, it is considerably more busy now; there are kids tiptoeing to sneak peeks at the delicious pastries, mothers picking the best jams, elegant ladies choosing pastries with a smile behind their fans, an old grandma knocking her knuckles on a bread loaf of choice to confirm the quality, a gentleman tipping his hat to Mark as he crosses paths with him in the doorway. Mark takes a moment to appreciate the lively colours once inside, the sweet scent in the shop, the mixed muttering of patrons.

He takes his hat off, his hands suddenly restless, but in a good way, a way that makes him feel constantly on the brink of a smile. A shy one, probably, a little uncertain. His eyes glimpse at the counter, where a middle aged woman with smiling eyes is serving one customer after another tirelessly. Donghyuck's bicycle was outside, sparkling proudly in the sun, but there's no sign of him in the shop. His absence is not a hindrance to Mark's plan. He fakes an interest in the handmade chocolates -certainly not allowing himself to think of their taste on Donghyuck's tongue-, loitering on the side of the counter, waiting for the kind lady to finish up with her current customers. He glances behind her too, at the bright work room that Donghyuck probably occupies on most days, but the curtains in the doorway are drawn almost closed, unlike the last time, and all Mark can see are dust particles of flour floating in white daylight through the little crack, like floating dandelions. It's hard to tell if there is someone in the room, but even just at the thought Mark's anticipation spikes a little. His fingers trace over the soft brim of his hat, turning it in his hands, meticulously focused. He is aware of the lady behind the counter -quite possibly Donghyuck's mother, since it is a family business- finishing wrapping a box of pastries with a big bow and sending off her last customers with well wishes.

"Welcome, good sir, how may I help you?" the woman addresses him politely, smiles, bright and gentle like Donghyuck. Mark reciprocates a small smile, making a few steps closer.

"I would like to make an order, please" he informs her, his voice coming out perhaps unnecessarily solemn -it's not a bad impression, however, his smile ameliorating the effect. The lady takes a good look at him, discreetly, so much so that someone could have missed it, but Mark knows the trade enough to catch it. He resists the urge to comb his fingers through his hair to make sure it is as orderly as he arranged them in the morning, internally confirming his good posture, with proper shoulders. He feels like he's pretending, a part more human than he usually needs to play, but it's impossible for her to know.

"Of course!" she chirps with a wide grin, seemingly pleased with the findings of her inspection; Mark wore a nice suit today, a navy blue one that makes him look like a young gentleman and not a brooding poet. His effort and patience have somewhat paid off, it seems. "Is it just one occasion or would you be making a regularly scheduled order? We offer excellent delivery service" she informs him in a professional and organized manner, but the smile never fades, curling around her words, showing the fine wrinkles of a happy woman on her features.

"I'm interested in the latter" he says, and for a fraction of a second her eyes widen in surprise, making such an easy and prosperous deal, but Mark is a man with purpose and he had been expecting this, hoping for it even, unbeknownst to her.

"Wonderful!" she exclaims, hands dancing merrily on the edge of the counter before she takes a step away from it. "I'll call someone you can make arrangements with; Donghyuck!" she turns around and calls the name directly into the back room, curtains muffling the echo, but it was loud enough to make its intention clear. Definitely a mother's call. The lady stands by the curtains and looks at Mark again, hands lacing in front of her skirt, a patient smile curving her lips. Mark bows his head, a wordless thanks for her assistance.

If only she knew how much she has assisted him. It matters little to his plans, for he had been fully prepared for the highly likely possibility of making the delivery arrangement with someone else and actually seeing Donghyuck a few days later, at the first delivery. They wouldn't be able to talk then, and they are certainly not able to talk now either, but Mark doesn't want to begin with a talk, he wants to _see_ Donghyuck again. Even just a little once, or maybe on brief but regular encounters, and then slowly work through the rest, slowly figure out the man haunting his sleepless dreams.

"Coming" a familiar voice chimes, sounding distant; Mark pinches the edge of his hat in restraint. Soon enough -entirely too long for Mark-, Donghyuck emerges from the back room, wiping his hands on a towel hanging on the side of his waist, his apron full of flower blooms, cheeks smudged a little too, his light brown curls shimmering in the sun. Mark had missed him. "How can I assist…" Donghyuck's bright voice trails off when he lifts his eyes and mees Mark, standing across from him, his steps losing momentum and coming to a stop just past the curtain.

Mark is not sure what he had been expecting, maybe a smile, maybe polite distance, or even irritation, but he gets a very disbelieving Donghyuck instead, wide eyes blinking, examining him closely as if to make sure it's him -or trying to find any reason it would not be him, suspecting a trick of the light-, blinking again. His hair is a little shaggy today, but he looks well, healthy, not as cheerful as usual in the mornings, but his family has taken good care of him after his fever. Mark feels his lips curling into a small smile, rueful and a little lopsided.

"What happened?" Donghyuck's mother asks, a little unsettled by the unreasonable silence that follows her son's entrance, assuming it's his fault, "You are so easily distracted these days, so glum, come, come" she urges under her breath, not really scolding him, reaching out to take his hand and guide him to the counter with her, his steps difficult as if he's wading through molasses. Mark feels a little bad for wanting to laugh. He doesn't miss the implicit meaning in her words, that Donghyuck has been unlike himself lately, and he's torn between feeling guilty and happy for being the cause of it. His lips must twitch, even faintly, because Donghyuck frowns for a moment, but it's gone and restored to mild surprise just as fast, his eyes dropping to Mark's hat in his hands, slowly rising tp to his face again, making sure it's him one last time, now that the distance between them is shorter. "Donghyuck, the gentleman would like to place an order for your deliveries, be so kind as to help him, will you?" The kind lady lays out for him, briefly patting his hand motherly in encouragement before letting go.

"I-" Donghyuck nearly jumps out of his skin when her words sink in, and he finally tears his eyes away from Mark -certain by now that it's really him-, shooting a flustered look at his mother, redness drenching his cheeks, fast like wildfire. "Maybe I-" he makes to protest, but her eyes turn serious at the slightest hint, vaguely threatening over her still smiling lips, and Donghyuck swallows the rest of his words, shoulders drooping in defeat. She seems pleased, smiling genuinely again as she leaves them without any further fuss, approaching another customer to help them in cookie selection.

Donghyuck sighs when she's gone, expressions shifting on his face too fast to catch, even for Mark who has been observing him most closely. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then he straightens his posture and looks at Mark, serious, decisive and composed. His blush has been admirably willed away; Mark remembers he always felt a little helpless when he blushed, it's still an uncomfortable sensation for him, even if it is no longer possible. Donghyuck's resolve is intriguingly impressive.

"This way, please" Donghyuck gestures to the side, where the sunflowers are always sunbathing, and they walk in parallel on opposite sides of the counter, one nervous and stiff, one amused and calm.

Donghyuck stops by a thick book full of letters categorised in columns, accompanied by the journals Mark remembers, his hands framing the open book on either side but he doesn't touch it, does not turn the page or pick up the pen, he doesn' even look at it. He keeps his focus resolutely on Mark instead, riddled with suspicion, pressing his plush lips into a thin line. He doesn't look angry. Confused and cautious, perhaps. A little defensive maybe. The bright light through the window swathes his skin in a golden shimmer, catches in his eyes and shines like glass, but warm and sweet like chocolate. Mark patiently, politely, respectfully, waits.

"Are you really here for an order?" he asks, laced deep with doubt and accusation, but he keeps it quiet, just between the two of them, eyes squinting as if trying to read through Mark's tailored clothes and pleasant appearance. It somehow makes Mark happy. And, quite frankly, Donghyuck looks adorable like this, with the flour smudges on his cheek that he's oblivious to spoiling the intimidating effect all too thoroughly.

"Of course, why would I lie?" Mark answers honestly, tilting his head innocently to the side and linking his hands behind his back, swinging the hat in his hold a little. He's a little happy, yes. Just to see Donghyuck again, just to talk to him, even if their words are no more than the yellow petals that have come loose, lying on the counter between them.

"Yes, why would you" Donghyuck's voice is flat and wry, small mouth twisting, nose scrunching a little. He still looks mistrustful, but not as shearing, his fingers drumming on the counter absently, thinking about his options.

A quiet, barely audible chuckle escapes Mark's lips, well-meaning, endeared, and Donghyuck's eyes zero in on his mouth automatically; Mark's eyebrows rise a little at that. It lasts just a second, but it's long enough for Donghyuck's cheeks and ears to heat up visibly, incriminatingly, and he clears his throat in slight discomfort, looking away. He glances behind Mark, at the other customers browsing the shop, and then he thinks of something else.

"You do know we only sell pastries, bread and jam, right?" he says, looking at Mark with a quirk in his eyebrow this time. Mark bites his lip a little, fighting a smile, and nods in affirmation. Donghyuck's expression turns puzzled. "And you can...eat those stuff?" He doesn't sound convinced -he has been in Mark's kitchen after all.

"No" Mark answers as truthfully as before, shaking his head. Donghyuck's eyes narrow in a way that says he definitely thinks Mark is lying now, he must be, and his fingers press down the corners of the ledger between them to ground his patience. Mark will admit it sounds rather oxymoron. He is not lying though. He's making excuses to see Donghyuck again but he wouldn't lie; he has no intention of ever lying to him.

"So, why _are_ you here?" Donghyuck mumbles, voice so low in his chest that it's almost a growl, but it's not threatening, it's...something else. He probably hasn't realised he's been leaning closer and closer to Mark over the counter, but that is not threatening either. It is underpinned with a strange, expectant patience, familiarity, an instinctive gravity. Mark takes a long look at Donghyuck's face, his little moles, the bow of his lips, and if anyone notices they've been left alone for too long, no one comes to disturb them.

"For an order" he repeats calmly, and before Donghyuck can counter him, probably more forthcoming this time, he lifts a hand to delay him and explains, "it's just not for me"

Donghyuck's face instantly smoothes out, understanding the situation.

"Oh" he breathes out, his fingers curling into his hands on the counter, perhaps in embarrassment. He holds Mark's eyes for a moment longer, pensive, then he makes himself focus, looking down and picking up the pen. "What would you like to order for someone else then?" he asks, keeping his eyes busy on the page, and if Mark had to guess that small bite of venom in his voice, it might be...jealousy. But he wouldn't dare flatter himself by making such assumptions.

So he pretends he didn't catch it and proceeds as planned. He lists the combinations of bread and pastries and the occasional jam he had prepared for his order, matching them to days of the week, sometimes answering Donghyuck's questions when something is available in more options than Mark had thought. Donghyuck takes clear notes, doesn't interrupt unnecessarily and handles everything very politely and professionally, attention devoted to the book, hair falling into his eyes a little. Mark keeps glancing at this name scribbled on top of the page, letters less orderly, looping and connecting to each other with every pen stroke, like a personal note, a familiar word you've written over and over again and now it writes itself just for yourself. It makes his chest warm, warmer than the skin exposed to the sun.

"I'm not sure if you're aware" Donghyuck says when they seem to have settled all the details, setting his pen aside and calmly looking up at Mark, "but all this seems a little much. It's not unusual but…" he makes a small gesture with his hand, trying to imply what he can't say politely enough if they are not alone behind closed doors. He can't seem to hold Mark's gaze either, his line of sight leveling to Mark's lapels.

"I know" he acknowledges, inevitably. "It's for the orphanage, the one down Mirror street" he offers, and Donghyuck's eyes lift in an instant, a few strands of hair prickling the corners and making him blink.

"East of the City Hall?"

"West"

"Right"

He looks away, pulling his lips with his teeth, a bit embarrassed, if his red ears are any indication. His awful sense of direction is nothing new to Mark, naturally, and it's not new to Donghyuck either, quickly yielding and turning flustered. It was not an important detail in their discussion in the first place. Mark thinks it's an endearing quality, Donghyuck's perpetually miscalibrated orientation -it's also what brought him to Mark, so he has a soft spot for it. He might tell him that someday. It's a pity he can't tell him how lovely he finds him right now, kiss the tops of his flaming cheeks. Donghyuck's profile, his constellation moles and long lashes, the pink curves of his bitten lips are so pretty. Really pretty. The gold-dipped curls at the sides of Donghyuck's cheekbones quiver.

"So, I'll be delivering these as scheduled to the orphanage and mail you the bill monthly?" he asks one final detail -the most important one in Mark's plan. He sounds a little resigned under the polite professionalism, shoulders tense, lips almost pouting, his eyes looking anywhere but Mark again, avoiding the sharp edge of the glass truce they've just built.

"No" Mark says, and Donghyuck's disappointment becomes confusion on his features; it feels like a small victory in a game for which no one is keeping score. For once, Mark is the unpredictable one. It's the moment Mark had been waiting for, one he didn't so much hope to witness firsthand as much as he imagined would happen when Donghyuck saw his delivery route. This is his hopeful beginning. Chest fluttering and heart soaring, Mark can't help the wide, toothy smile bleeding onto his lips no matter his efforts to hide it. He supposes such courteous reservations won't matter in a moment, when Donghyuck blooms into an equally wide smile, starry-eyed and perhaps startlingly happy. "You'll be delivering these to the corner house with the leucoia"

***

It turns out to be a beautiful beginning.


End file.
